


Under The Weather

by squilf



Series: Eames from Marketing [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - Office, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2020-02-10 21:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18668380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/pseuds/squilf
Summary: Arthur is a grumpy Financial Analyst. Eames from Marketing is hopelessly, persistently in love with him. And when Eames gets sick, well, there’s only one person who can make him feel better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PalindromeIsntOne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PalindromeIsntOne/gifts).



> 1 May 2019:
> 
> I originally posted 12 chapters of this fic on [LiveJournal](https://squilf.livejournal.com/10524.html) and [FanFiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7982164/1/Under-The-Weather) back in 2013. But I always felt that the first 8 chapters were the ‘original’ fic, and the extra chapters were more of a ‘postscript’. (I _was_ just going to post one extra chapter, but things ran away with me.) So, I’m re-uploading this to AO3 as a two-fic series.
> 
> I ended up taking a break from fandom so I never got around to finishing this fic – but this way, you get one complete story, and one that’s nearly finished. That said, I am really fond of this AU and I have always meant to come back to it. So, six years later, you might _finally_ get some closure on this...

Arthur’s on the tube when he gets the call. He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, one hand gripping onto a hanger overhead. He rolls his eyes when he sees the caller ID. The name _Eames <3_ pops up on the screen, together with a photo of the offending man with his hands in a heart shape. Arthur presses the green button.

“You hacked my phone,” he says.

“Hello, Arthur.”

“You hacked my phone _again,_ Eames. I – I just don’t get _how_ you do it. I keep it on me all the time, and anyway, I changed my password, how the fuck did you guess? It’s not even _obvious_. I mean, _nontransitivedice_ , how obscure does it need to be?”

Eames is always messing around with Arthur’s phone. The wallpaper’s still a photo of the alphabet sweets he arranged on his desk to spell _I love you, Arthur Levine_. Arthur hasn’t figured out how to change it back to a graph demonstrating Cramer’s paradox yet. (Well, that’s what he claims. Ari did point out that he could just Google it.)

“Darling –”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me,” Arthur snaps, “What do you want?”

“I’m ill.”

“What?”

“I have a stomach bug. I won’t be in to work today.”

“Well. Fine,” says Arthur, his tone childishly stubborn, “ _Good_. At least now I can get a moment’s peace.”

“Arth –”

“I expect you’ll want me to tell Mr Saito. Don’t worry. I will.”

“Arthur, what –”

“I’ve got to go now, I’m almost in the station.”

It’s a lie, of course – Arthur is three stops away from the station. But he reckons he’s made enough of a scene this morning.

“Arthur, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Arthur_.”

Arthur shuts his eyes, sighs, wishes Eames doesn’t know him so well.

“It’s, uh, just – it’s nothing. Listen, I’ll, I’ll come round later, yeah?”

“OK.”

“You – just stay in bed and watch _Jeremy Kyle_ or something. I’ll be round about six. Will you be alright?”

“Of course. Will you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just – uh, don’t worry. I’ll see you later.”

“OK. Love you.”

“Shut up, Mr Eames,” says Arthur, biting back a smile.

He disconnects the phone and quietly groans. He sees an elderly woman sitting next to him, handbag perched on her lap, looking at him.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“Not at all, dear,” she says, smiling, “Was that your boyfriend?”

Arthur clenches his jaw, manages a smile.

“No. He’s just someone from work.”

She smiles knowingly.

“I see.”

Sometimes, Arthur could _kill_ Eames.

 

* * *

 

About three things everyone in the office is absolutely positive. First, that Arthur Levine is a Financial Analyst (whatever that is). Second, that there is a part of him, and they don’t know how dominant that part might be, that wants to kill everyone in the room at a given time. And third, that Eames from Marketing is unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.

It’s possibly the most dysfunctional office romance ever. It starts quietly on a Tuesday morning. Arthur’s in the communal kitchen making coffee when Ari the Architect (there have been catchier nicknames) bounds in, grinning.

“Oh my God, Arthur, I’ve found the _perfect_ guy for you.”

“Good morning, Ari.”

“He’s funny, he’s charming, he’s _British_ –”

“ _He_? Ari, I know I told Dom I wasn’t interested in you, but that doesn’t mean it’s because I’m gay.”

“Oh, sorry. I couldn’t think of any other reason.”

Arthur folds his arms and leans against the kitchen counter.

“Listen, it’s nothing personal. I’m just – not looking for a relationship right now.”

“And when will you be?” asks Ari, “Arthur, you’ve worked here for, what, _three years_ now, and in all that time, you haven’t been with anyone. Come on, at least give Eames a chance, he seems really nice.”

Arthur gives her a tight smile.

“I’ll be fine, thanks.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, _fuck you_.”

Arthur’s standing in the Reprographics room on the second floor. He’s engaged in a war of attrition against his old enemy, Clegg. Clegg is a photocopier. Photocopiers usually don’t have names, but they also usually don’t have mortal enemies. (After his third battle with said photocopier, Arthur christens it Clegg because it’s highly unreliable and doesn’t do anything useful.) He rolls up his sleeves and removes the side panel, and starts fiddling around inside the machine without any real method. He’s bent over, his face practically inside the thing, hands covered in ink, hair sticking up. It’s hardly elegant.

“Do you want some help with that?”

The voice startles Arthur and he bashes his head on the photocopier.

“Ah, _shit_ ,” he swears, pulling his head out of Clegg (that sounds wrong) and rubbing the back of his head, “Fuck.”

“Are you alright?”

Arthur looks up to find a man standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against the doorframe and looking at him, half-amused, head tilted to one side. He’s wearing what is possibly one of the most hideous shirts Arthur’s ever seen. Brown and yellow and green and pink stripes. He looks like a flamboyantly gay bumblebee. Once Arthur’s mind accepts that a shirt this awful actually exists in the material world, he realises that the man is really quite handsome.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” says Arthur, “Photocopier’s a bit temperamental.”

“So I see,” the man says, lips twitching upwards in a smirk, “You have been wrestling with it for a while now.”

“You – were watching?”

The man shrugs.

“I had a good view of your arse.”

Arthur feels his face flush hot.

“So, _do_ you want some help there?” the man asks again, “Or are you on top of it?”

“I’m sure I’ll be alright without your assistance, thank you,” Arthur says stiffly.

“Whatever you want, darling.”

The man shrugs, but doesn’t move.

“Why aren’t you leaving?” Arthur asks.

“Bored of me already?”

He holds up a sheaf of paper.

“I’ve got to photocopy this lot. They’re giving me easy stuff to do ‘cause I’m new. I’m not just randomly loitering here. Even if you are rather cute.”

He looks Arthur up and down, utterly unashamed.

“Get over here,” Arthur sighs.

“So demanding,” the man mutters, but he does as he’s told, setting down his paper and peering into the photocopier.

“Any ideas?” Arthur asks impatiently, hands on his hips.

“Yes.”

He looks up at Arthur.

“There’s no paper left.”

“Yes there is, I –”

Arthur stops short then, because the man has just opened the paper tray and it’s completely empty.

“You see, darling,” he says, smiling, “Sometimes a problem has the simplest solution.”

Arthur bites his lip and _glowers_ , trying very hard not to attack this guy.

“You got a name to go with those bedroom eyes?”

Arthur breathes in deeply, and doesn’t reply.

“OK, well,” the man says, shaking his hand and lingering just a little too long, “I’m Eames. I’m glad to be of service to you. Always will be.”

Arthur blinks.

“What?”

“If you ever need someone to _help you out_ , I –”

“No, I got the innuendo. But – what’s your name?”

“Eames. Now’s the polite time to introduce yourself.”

Arthur doesn’t introduce himself. Instead he storms out of the room, muttering, “I’m going to _kill_ her,” under his breath.

Eames sticks his head out of the door.

“But I don’t even know your name!”

But Arthur’s already run up the stairs.

“Fine, fine,” Eames murmurs, “I’ll just fap over the one known only as ‘weird angry photocopier guy’, shall I?”

 

* * *

 

“What the _fuck_ made you think I’d like that guy?!”

Ari doesn’t even look up from her computer.

“Hmm?”

“That _Eames_ guy. _What_ – I mean, _how_ – just, uh, he’s _ridiculous_! He’s annoying, he’s badly dressed, he’s _way_ too forward –”

“Wow,” says Yusuf, genuinely impressed, “You really like him, don’t you?”

“What are you even _doing_ here, Yusuf?” says Arthur, “Go back to Pharmaceuticals. That’s where you belong.”

“Seriously, Arthur,” says Yusuf, not bothering to move, “I’ve never seen you get so excited about anyone before. This Eames must really be something.”

Arthur practically shudders in rage.

“Let me get this straight. I don’t like him, and I never, _ever_ will. _Ever_.”

Ari gives him a look.

“That means you want to fuck him.”

Arthur grits his teeth.

“I do _not_.”

“Oh, course not, my mistake. You want him to fuck you.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I hate you so much right now.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur manages to avoid Eames for a few days. He’s hoping he can keep it up for the rest of his life, or at least until he somehow engineers the man’s expulsion from Extraction Inc., or, failing that, his sudden and painful death. But then the lift doors slide open on Friday morning and Eames is standing there, smirking at him.

“Hello, darling.”

Arthur considers running away again, which is undignified but quite possibly necessary, but Eames says, “Oh no you don’t,” grabs his wrist and pulls him in.

Arthur pulls away, because Eames’ hands have somehow snaked their way around his waist, but the doors have already shut and now he’s trapped in a small metal box until they reach his floor.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up again,” says Eames, still touching him.

Arthur slaps him away.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Mr Eames. I don’t know where they’ve been.”

“Photocopiers, mostly. Been a bit of a boring first week. You could liven it up a bit.”

Arthur folds his arms and huffs.

“Aren’t you a darling,” says Eames, smiling at him like he’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

Arthur is _not_ cute. He is intelligent, efficient, meticulous. He is a Financial Analyst, not a kitten.

“Don’t call me that. I do have a name, you know.”

“Actually, I don’t. You ran away when I asked you.”

“Well, it’s Arthur. Arthur Levine.”

“ _Ohh_ ,” Eames says, raking his eyes up and down Arthur’s body as if he wishes he could do the same with his hands, “So _you’re_ the one that pretty girl from the top floor told me about. She wasn’t lying when she said you were gorgeous. I suppose she told you about me, then?”

“She did.”

“So, what do you say to it? Want to go out for drinks sometime?”

Arthur turns to him and smiles.

“I would rather have my intestines surgically removed and fed to diseased cannibals.”

Eames blinks.

“I’m guessing that’s a no, then?”

“Yes, that’s a no.”

“S’alright. I love a challenge.”

Arthur gives him a look.

“I don’t give in easily, Mr Eames.”

“Well, darling. Neither do I.”

 

* * *

 

They’re both true to their word. Eames never stops pursuing, Arthur never stops resisting. Eames wants a fuck buddy. Arthur wants to be left alone. Neither of them gets what they want. They end up getting a friend. It’s certainly an odd friendship, but there isn’t really any other word for it.

It’s about a few weeks after they meet that they make a truce, of sorts. Eames corners Arthur at the work summer party, the one they always have around the holidays. Extraction Inc.’s several hundred-odd workforce and their assorted plus ones are crammed into the main hall, spilling out over the ground floor. Arthur’s spent most of the party avoiding Ari, who’s trying to set him up with some girl from Human Resources whose face reminds him of a racoon for some reason he can’t describe, and being Philippa and James’ favourite grumpy uncle. He’s got James on his shoulders, and is setting him a good example by grabbing as much free alcohol as he can get away with and occasionally passing him bits of party food. Eames stalks over, brandishing two wine glasses.

“Arthur!”

“Oh, Eames. Hi.”

Eames passes Arthur a glass.

“Good to see you,” he says, nodding at James, “And is that something of yours?”

“ _God_ , no,” says Arthur, knocking back the wine, “This is Cobb’s son. James.”

“’llo,” says James, waving.

“Good evening, Master Cobb,” says Eames, his voice perfectly formal, and shakes his hand.

James giggles, because he’s three and a half years old and no-one treats him like a grown-up. Eames levels his eyes with Arthur’s.

“Good evening, Mr Levine.”

“Good evening, Mr Eames.”

Arthur wonders if introductions can be flirtatious, or there is such a thing as a formality kink, but this is Britain, and he’s this side of drunk, so yeah, that’s probably a thing. He also wonders if he should be flirting with a sexually deviant man in front of a toddler, and he comes to the conclusion that he shouldn’t really, so he does the responsible thing and deposits James on the floor.

“Go find daddy,” he says.

James nods and runs off.

“What if you lose him?” asks Eames.

Arthur shrugs.

“I look underneath the buffet table.”

Eames smiles.

That’s when Arthur catches sight of Ari making a beeline towards him with a woman who still really _does_ look like a racoon on her arm.

“Shit.”

“What is it?” asks Eames.

Arthur nods towards the two women heading towards them.

“Ari’s not given up on her mission to get me laid.”

“Hell, _I’ve_ not given up on that mission.”

Eames takes Arthur’s arm.

“Fancy getting some air?” he asks.

Arthur has to choose between a sexually deviant man and racoon face, and he goes for the former, because he’s kind of tipsy and that seems like the most fun. Eames bundles him into the lift, pausing only to grab more supplies of alcohol, and in a matter of minutes they’re up on the roof, hit by the cool December air, surrounded by London’s lights. They sit down by the railings, looking over the city, and it’s probably against the health and safety regulations but no-one actually cares about those, given the state of the fourth floor’s kitchenette, which is currently housing seven different subspecies of moth though no-one really knows why. Eames passes Arthur a bottle of red and he takes a swig from it, wine staining his mouth red. Eames stares like it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

“So,” he says, voice slightly slurred, “Arthur, tell me. What’s a place like you doing in a boy like this?”

Arthur giggles.

“Because you, Mr Eames, are trying to get me drunk and take advantage. On a roof.”

“I’d never,” says Eames.

 _I would_ , say Eames’ eyes.

“I mean,” Eames begins again, “What are you doing in London?”

Arthur leans against the railings, face against the cool metal.

“Oh. Work. ‘S an American company, but the higher-ups announced we were expanding to other countries a couple years back. Europe, mostly. France, Germany, Spain, Britain… You could stay or you could go. And I wanted to get away, because – anyway, I liked the sound of Britain best. Same language. Far enough away. Simple. And Dom was coming over here too, to get a fresh start for him and the kids after… So yeah. I just – packed up my stuff and left.”

“What about your family?”

“Fuck them.”

Eames looks a little taken aback, but Arthur doesn’t apologise.

“They’re the reason I wanted to leave.”

“What did they –”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Eames nods, doesn’t push any further.

“What about you?” asks Arthur.

“Oh, I grew up here. Left after Uni. I’ve always wandered about, doing this and that. Got a reasonable degree though, so I always did alright. Mum had been pestering me to come back here for _years_ , so she told me when this job came up, and to be fair, I’d had enough of Investment Banking – yes, I was in that line of work, and no, I didn’t have a _clue_ what I was doing – and the money’s alright too, so, yeah, I took the job.”

“You see your parents often?”

“Never had a dad. Just me and my mum. Yeah, I see her all the time. You should meet her sometime. She’d like you.”

Arthur pushes the hair back off his face.

“Hmm. Maybe.”

“Oh, come on. She’d love you as much as I do. Though probably not in the same way.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Probably.”

He smiles and Eames feels like a teenager sneaking out at night with stolen alcohol, happy and tipsy and full of want. Arthur looks so _young_ , so simple and free and easy, and Eames wants to kiss him. He doesn’t, though. Because Arthur chooses that moment to stretch out tiredly and lean heavily against him, curling up closer like a cat, and Eames just puts an arm around him and rests his head on top of Arthur’s.

“You know what, Mr Eames?” Arthur says lazily.

“What?”

“You’re not so bad.”

Eames grins.

“You’re rather wonderful yourself.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

They work in different departments. Arthur’s in Finances, on the third floor, and Eames is in Marketing, two floors up from him (which has elicited a few ‘on top’ innuendos in the past). Eames always comes down whenever he has a break, with a cup of coffee and a smile, perching himself on Arthur’s desk and doing his best to distract him. Arthur pretends to work, but he barely gets anything done with Eames around. Eames often comes again at lunch, trying to get Arthur to actually eat something, because he practically  _lives_  off coffee and nicotine gum, and he normally succeeds. If he can drag him outside, they sit on a bench in Hyde Park, sharing Eames’ lunch. Eames is actually a rather good cook. He makes pasties and rolls and baps and brownies, big and robust and tasty. And if he can’t drag Arthur outside, he turns on the radio and sings along and drinks tea and chats easily with the rest of the Finance team. When Cobb comes back at the end of lunch, he finds Eames flirting and Arthur flustered, as if they’ve spent the last half hour arguing like an old married couple. (Which they have.) And occasionally –  _very_ occasionally – Eames manages to kiss Arthur on the cheek before he goes. (He never notices Arthur blush and cover his mouth to hide a smile.) And then there’s the texts.

Eames, 7.50am

_morning gawjuss. had a dream about u last nite. xx_

Arthur, 7.51am

_It’s spelt ‘gorgeous’. And anyway, I’m not. I’ll ignore the other comment._

Eames, 7.51am

_i think u r ;) ur a peng ting xx_

Arthur, 7.52am

_I don’t even know what that means. It sounds like something in Chinese._

Eames, 7.53am

_it means ur GORGEOUS xx_

Arthur, 7.54am

_I refer you to my previous statement._

Eames, 7.55am

_wot can i do2 convince u ur v fuckable? xx_

Arthur, 7.55am

_Fuck me._

Arthur, 7.55am

_(I presume.)_

Arthur, 7.56am

_Not that I want you to. I don’t, by the way. In case you didn’t already know that._

Eames, 7.56am

_u jus sent me a txt saying ‘fuck me’ i m goin2 get off on this 4 weeks_

Arthur, 7.57am

_I really don’t want to hear about your empty shell of a sex life._

Eames, 7.57am

_wow it sounds a lot lyk urs_

Arthur, 7.58am

_At least I’m not a whore._

Eames, 7.58am

_i don’t want u 2 b. i want u all 2 myself ;) xx_

Arthur, 7.59am

_I am not your whore._

Eames, 7.59am

_not yet._

Arthur, 7.59am

_Dream on._

Eames, 8.00am

_oh i do ;) weren’t u wondering wot u did in my dream…? ;)_

 

* * *

 

They’ve known each other for three months when Arthur meets Mrs Eames. Eames’ mother, that is. He doesn’t have a wife. At least, not that he knows of. He’s done a few things he’s lived to regret. Like that night in Liverpool. Anyway, Mrs Eames. One Friday, they get off early. It’s practically unprecedented event. Mr Saito runs a tight ship. But it’s summer and they’ve just reached the end of a long-term project that’s come off well – very well – and the boss is feeling generous. He calls a meeting before lunch, which doesn’t sound very impressive but he invites  _the entire workforce_  and they somehow manage to fit them all in the entrance hall. Eames fervently denies that he is exploiting the lack of space when Arthur kindly asks him to get his hands  _off_  him. Saito claps Cobb on the back, because they have this working-relationship-slash-brohood going on.

“Today, I would like to congratulate every employee of Extraction Inc.,” he says, smiling broadly.

“He’s so handsome,” Ariadne murmurs, looking at Cobb.

“You really think so?” asks Arthur, looking at Saito.

“I know it’s inappropriate, because, you know, professionalism and that shit, but damn, that ass,” she sighs, “And anyway, it’s not like it’s  _that much_  against the rules. I mean, you and Eames have a  _special working relationship_.”

“Ariadne, I am  _not_  screwing Mr Eames!”

At least seven people standing nearby turn around and say, “ _Really?_ ”

“Yes!” Arthur screams.

Eames shrugs.

“I’m working on it,” he says.

“Well, get a move on,” says Yusuf, “Arthur  _really_  needs to get laid.”

“What makes this company stand out is the professionalism of every employee,” says Saito.

“You  _wanker_ ,” shouts Arthur, surging forwards.

Eames just about manages to hold him back before he can shank Yusuf.

“And to celebrate your success,” Saito continues heedlessly as Arthur struggles against Eames, “I would like to give you all the rest of the day off.”

The room erupts with claps and cheers, because most of Saito’s employees are bored office workers who spend their time clock-watching and photocopying their hands (or other parts of their bodies), and a few people try to sneak out of the fire exit then and there.

“Thank you all once again,” says Saito, “Enjoy the rest of the day, with your loved ones.”

“Oh darling,” says Eames, who’s now just cuddling Arthur, “You get to spend the rest of the day with me.”

Arthur does, of course. Eames is a loved one. Not that he’d admit that.

 

* * *

 

“Where are we going?” Arthur whines as Eames drags him down the street.

Eames doesn’t reply, just tightens his grip on Arthur’s hand and pulls him across the road.

“ _Eames!_ ”

“Just hold on a bit, darling, we’ll be there soon.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, feeling like an ignored middle-aged wife, and lets Eames pull him around. Before long, they reach a small teashop. It’s little and neat, and the sign reads  _Something’s Brewing_.

“ _Really_?” says Arthur, frankly appalled at the pun.

“I thought it was quite clever,” says Eames, and pulls him inside.

It’s warm and cosy inside, like a cottage that’s been transplanted from the countryside into the capital of England. It’s teeming with people, tables full of customers, waitresses hurrying along with full trays, but Eames neatly threads his way through the tables, pulling Arthur along with him, through the door marked  _Staff Only_  and into the kitchen. The woman inside looks up, surprised, then her face breaks into a broad smile. She’s short, with wispy grey hair and the same bright blue eyes as Eames. Of course. It makes sense. Eames had said Arthur should meet his mother. And there’s a reason he’s a good cook.

“Taffy!” she cries, setting down the cake she’s frosting, “I didn’t know you were coming today, darling.”

“Taffy?” Arthur murmurs under his breath.

“Say nothing,” Eames replies quickly.

Eames’ mum crosses the kitchen and kisses him on the cheek.

“So, who’s this?” she asks, looking Arthur up and down in a  _you’re-adorable-I’m-so-glad-my-son’s-found-you-sweetie_  kind of a way.

“Oh, this is Arthur. Arthur, my mum.”

Mrs Eames beams and hugs Arthur tightly.

“Good to meet you, Mrs Eames,” says Arthur, as she squashes him, like a maiden aunt who hugs you just a bit too long at a family party.

“Call me Stacy, darling.”

“Oh, Stacy, hi.”

Mrs Eames finally releases Arthur.

“Taffy’s told me so much about you,” she gushes.

“Good things, I hope,” says Arthur.

“There  _are_  only good things,” says Eames, obviously not averse to flirting in the presence of his mother.

“Are you boys bunking off work?” she asks.

“We’d never,” says Eames, “Honestly, woman, what do you think we are?”

“Mr Saito gave us the rest of the day off,” Arthur explains.

“So I was thinking I’d spend it with you,” says Eames.

Mrs Eames beams.

“That’s a nice idea, darling.”

“Can you get Tariq to cover for you in the kitchen for a bit?” asks Eames.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

In the end, Mrs Eames wrangles a few hours off – there’s no good in being self-employed if you can’t let yourself off from time to time – and grabs what she calls “a few bits and pieces” from the fridge. They sit in the park, where “a few bits and pieces” turns out to be a plateful of sandwiches, several bottles of ginger beer and an entire lemon sponge. And it’s nice – it’s really nice. It’s summer and it’s warm (for once) and they sit and chat and eat. Mrs Eames – no, call me Stacy, darling – is lovely. It feels strangely like family. Like how families are meant to be, not Arthur’s real one, the people who lie and keep secrets and hate each other. Just chatting easily, getting to know each other. After they’ve demolished their picnic, Eames hears the tinkling of an ice-cream van and prepares to depart in pursuit of even more food.

“So that’s two 99’s with flakes for us…What do you want, Arthur?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m full.”

Eames shrugs, whispers in Arthur’s ear, “You can lick mine if you like,” and dashes off. Arthur tries to keep a straight face, because  _Eames’ mum_  is there and it’s embarrassing, but he fails rather spectacularly.

Stacy looks at him knowingly, smiling slightly.

“Arthur, darling,” she says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know that my son is in love with you?”

Arthur stops, blinks, breathes. Tries to think. Tries to take in what she’s just said.

“What?”

“Oh. You don’t.”

Arthur feels like his understanding of himself and the world around him has just been proved to be false.

“Sorry, but, what are you – what?”

Stacy shrugs.

“I thought you ought to know, after all, you’re his boyfriend.”

“I’m not his boyfriend.”

“So what are you doing having lunch with his mother?”

Arthur stammers out an answer.

“I – we – we got the afternoon off, I didn’t have anything better to do – he’s my fr– well, he’s one of the few people who don’t mind me, and I like – well, kind of like.”

“So you’re, oh, what do you say – friends with benefits?”

“No! We’re friends! I’ve never –  _no_.”

Stacy pulls a face.

“He doesn’t get like this about just anyone, you know. You must have done something special.”

“I haven’t done anything!”

“Well, I think you have. He’s very taken with you.”

“No, I never – Eames has been hitting on me since he got into the office, but he doesn’t mean it, he just – I mean he’s like that with everyone, he just flirts, there’s nothing to it, it’s not – he doesn’t mean anything, and he knows I’m not interested, so, no – just, no, he’s not.”

“Are you  _sure_  you’re just friends?”

“Mrs Eames, I HAVE NEVER FUCKED YOUR SON!”

There is an awkward silence, during which Arthur instantly regrets the decision to shout that in a public area at an elderly woman.

“You probably shouldn’t use that language, darling, there are children about.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Eames!”

Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin, because Eames is standing behind him, holding an ice-cream in each hand. He gives one to his mother, while Arthur buries his head in his hands. Eames sits next to Arthur.

“Oh darling,” he whispers, snaking an arm around Arthur’s waist, “If you want to change that, the offer still stands.”

“I have never been so embarrassed in all my life,” Arthur mumbles flatly.

Eames ruffles Arthur’s hair and resumes licking his ice-cream. Mrs Eames watches them.

“Well,” she says, “This is nice.”

It’s only a few minutes later, when they’ve finished their ice-creams and Mrs Eames says she really ought to be getting back to the teashop now, kissing both of them on the cheek before she scurries off, that Arthur groans and practically crawls into Eames’ lap, as if he can shield him from the embarrassment.

“I can’t believe I told your mum I’ve never fucked you,” he says into Eames’ shirt.

“I can’t believe you’ve never fucked me.”

“This isn’t funny, Eames.”

“No, of course it’s not. You just vented your sexual frustrations at my mother. Publically.”

Arthur moans and fists his hands in Eames’ shirt. Eames wraps his arms around his back in a hug.

“I thought we were getting on  _fine_ ,” says Arthur, “And then she said – well.”

“What? What did she say?”

Arthur mumbles something incoherent into Eames’ chest.

“You’ll have to say that up here, darling, I can’t hear you.”

Arthur looks up at Eames.

“She said you were in love with me.”

Eames stills.

“Oh,” is all he says.

“What?” Arthur’s almost afraid to ask.

“She said that – and it – upset you?”

Arthur really feels like he should be having this conversation in a different place, like  _not in Eames’ lap_ , but he’s here now and he’s not too sure why but it feels awkward now and it didn’t before.

“Well not  _upset_  – I mean – it threw me. Because you’re obviously not. Are you.”

Eames is looking at him like he’s disappointed, and Arthur hates it.

“Right.”

Eames looks away, and Arthur puts a hand to his face on impulse, turning his head back to face him.

“ _Eames_.”

“What?”

Arthur doesn’t know what.

“Just – shut up, OK?” he says, and presses a kiss to his cheek, like a silent apology, though he doesn’t know what he’s apologising for.

Eames kisses his forehead, holds him close, and thinks about kissing him properly. Lips, tongues, teeth.

Arthur pulls back slightly, smiles a little.

“ _Taffy_ ,” he says.

“Shut up.”

“Really, though? Taffy? Is it short for something? Taffinius? Tiffany? Ta– ahh, fuck,  _Eames_!”

Arthur stops talking then because Eames decides the best way to get him to shut the fuck up is to tickle-attack him, and Arthur laughs and squirms and falls backwards onto the grass, his shirt rucked up, his hair tangled in the grass, and he’s beautiful, in that moment, he’s nothing but  _Arthur_ , no stress or annoyance or  _go away, Mr Eames_ , he’s just himself, and that’s a rather wonderful thing to be. Eames stops, hands either side of Arthur’s head, caging him in, and he should kiss him, he’s  _desperate_  to, and Arthur stops laughing and just looks at him, and he really,  _really_  needs to kiss him now, because they’ve been dancing around this for three months and he needs Arthur like he doesn’t know how – and then there’s a sudden stutter as the ice-cream van kickstarts into life, and they both jump. Eames laughs, buries his head in Arthur’s stomach, because  _really_ , the world is trying to cockblock him now as well as Arthur. Arthur puts a hand to the back of Eames’ head, threading through his hair, and Jesus Christ  _why_  are they  _sitting in a park_ and  _not fucking_? He looks up, meets Arthur’s eyes.

“You know what, Mr Levine?” he says.

“What?”

“You’re not so bad.”

Arthur smiles.

“You’re rather wonderful yourself.”


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur Levine’s social life is like self-service checkouts that actually work without pissing everyone off. It does not exist. His weekends consist of sleeping, tidying, cleaning, cooking, and, if he’s feeling really crazy, ironing. He leaves the flat in order to purchase the food which he needs to live, but that’s it. If he didn’t have to work in order to earn the money which he needs to live, he’d never go outside. He has a flat, not a home. It’s spotlessly clean, as if dust particles don’t _dare_ to settle in Arthur’s house because they’ve heard horror stories about what he’ll do if he finds them. He thought about getting a cat once but he soon realised he wouldn’t be able to cope with the cruel reality of cat hairs. And for years, for _years_ , Arthur is happy to live like this, quiet and solitary. But he can’t anymore. He’s – _lonely_. And he doesn’t know why. Arthur rolls over in his white-sheeted double bed and stares up at the white ceiling.

“Bloody Eames,” he says, and leans out of bed to grab his mobile from his bedside table.

Arthur, 9.32am

 _Morning_.

Eames, 9.33am

_alrite luv? not lyk u 2 txt me 1st. nt tht im complaining. xx_

Arthur, 9.33am

_I’m not sure how to put this. So I’ll just say it bluntly._

Eames, 9.33am

_oh hello ;)_

Arthur, 9.34am

_I’m bored. Entertain me._

Eames, 9.34am

_ur place or mine?_

 

* * *

 

Arthur turns up on Eames’ doorstep at a few minutes past ten.

“Alright, darling?” says a pyjama-clad Eames, holding a newspaper and a mug of tea and opening the door with his foot.

Something smells good.

“You having breakfast?” says Arthur.

Eames grins.

“I’m making pancakes.”

Arthur barely suppresses a groan.

“I’m so glad we’re friends.”

“So am I, love,” says Eames, and pulls him inside.

So they stand in Eames’ too-small, too-cluttered kitchen and Eames makes pancakes and they sit in Eames’ too-small, too-cluttered garden and eat them. Arthur does the washing up while Eames has a shower. Then Eames says, “I was gonna go help mum out a bit today,” and Arthur says, “Can I come too?” so they go to _Something’s Brewing_ and Mrs Eames beams at them and hugs them both tightly and pretends she’s forgotten that Arthur vented his sexual frustrations at her publically and lets Tariq and Aisha off for a few hours because “Taffy and his young man are helping me out for a bit.” Eames and his mum have the kitchen to themselves, and Arthur’s front of house. His first job was at a restaurant when he was 15. He liked it, liked being independent, liked getting away from his family, liked being busy and productive. He learnt his work ethic there. He’s a good waiter, quick and efficient and he memorises table numbers and orders easily. It’s a sociable, busy few hours, and then Tariq and Aisha come back and Arthur and Eames sit in the kitchen having lunch.

“So this is how you entertain me?” says Arthur jokingly, who’s sitting on a crate of mushrooms and eating a prawn cocktail sandwich, “By making me work? Way to show me a good time, Eames.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Eames, leaning closer, “Would you rather I made you do something else?”

Arthur shrugs.

“Depends what that something else is.”

“I have a few ideas.”

“Oh?”

Then Eames decides to actually tell him exactly what his _few ideas_ are, and Arthur chokes on his sandwich. Stacy looks over.

“Something in your throat, darling?” she asks.

Arthur chokes harder.

Stacy insists that Arthur keeps his tips, since he just worked for her for free, then kisses him and Eames goodbye, saying, “Have a nice weekend, darlings.” That afternoon they go to the cinema and see some superhero movie and get bored halfway through so they throw popcorn into the air and try to catch it in their mouths and provide their own running commentary, which they find bloody hilarious, and the other occupants of the cinema find bloody annoying. It’s getting dark by the time they leave the cinema, and then it gets awkward when they say goodbye because Eames is trying to get Arthur to come back to his so Arthur says, “Thank you. For today. We should do it again sometime.” and it’s polite but vague, and Eames says, “You free next weekend?” hopefully and Arthur says, “I think so,” because it doesn’t sound as tragic as _I’m free every weekend_ , and tries to leave, but Eames doesn’t let him go before he’s grabbed him, pulled him into a tight hug, and taken the opportunity to lick his neck, and Arthur pulls away, laughing, and says, “Goodbye, Mr Eames,” and goes home.

And then Arthur goes round next weekend and the weekend after that and sometimes they help out at _Something’s Brewing_ and sometimes they stay in and Arthur tries to beat Eames at Mario Kart (and fails) and sometimes they go out and Eames tries to get Arthur drunk (and fails). And it’s fun, and it’s been nearly five months and Eames is still desperate to get on Arthur and Arthur is still avoiding the issue and Cobb is on the verge of slamming his head on the desk and screaming at them to deal with their sexual tension because this is the third time this week Arthur has doodled a penis on the financial reports. And then one Monday, Eames calls Arthur to say he’s ill, and well, we’re back to where we started, aren’t we, with Arthur getting pissy on the tube to work, because that’s what this story is about, really, Eames being ill and Arthur, his darling –only _his_ darling – dealing with it. He doesn’t deal with it very well, of course. this is Arthur we’re talking about.

 

* * *

 

“Morning,” says Ari the Architect as Arthur steps into the communal kitchen.

Yusuf, who’s standing next to her, gives him a cheerful wave.

“I hate my life,” Arthur replies, and starts to make coffee, because he’s just decided his life isn’t worth living any longer and coffee is the only immediate solution because his razors are at home.

“Do you want to expand on that?” asks Ari blithely, leaning against the kitchen counter and stirring her coffee.

“Not really. Just wanted to let you know. My life sucks. Fuck my life, Ari. Fuck it. How was your weekend?”

“Better than yours, by the look of it.”

Arthur spills his coffee on the kitchen counter and spends the next few minutes swearing at it.

“What happened?” asks Ari, folding her arms, “Did you forget to tape _Antiques Roadshow_?”

Yusuf giggles.

“ _Shut up_.”

Arthur’s got enough on his plate without being teased about his TV preferences. When Eames found out about it, he’d come up with a whole score of strange (if inventive) antique-based innuendos (such as “Would you care to evaluate my goods?”).

“Did you take Eames home and then wake up to find him gone?” asks Yusuf.

“Shut the fuck up, Yusuf!”

“Nah,” says Ari, “If that happened, Arthur would be tied to his bed for the next ten days.”

She and Yusuf snort with laughter.

“You too, Ari?” Arthur says, deeply betrayed, “You too?”

“Are you sexually frustrated?” Yusuf asks, his voice overly sympathetic.

“ _No_ …”

“Yup, sounds like it to me,” Yusuf comments, taking a sip of coffee.

Arthur looks at Yusuf. It’s a look that says, _Bitch, I will end you_. (It’s a look that Yusuf knows well.)

“Awh, honey,” says Ari, putting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, “What happened?”

“Eames happened.”

“It’s alright, Arthur,” says Yusuf, “Tell us where the bad man touched you.”

“I want to punch you,” says Arthur, “In the face. With a chainsaw.”

“Did he send you a text saying ‘morning beautiful’ or something?” asks Ari.

Arthur blinks.

“Well, yes. He does that every morning.”

“Did he forget?” asks Ari, “Are you scared he doesn’t love you anymore?”

“He called me to say he’s ill at home.”

“Aww,” says Ari, pinching Arthur’s cheek, “Are you missing him already, baby? Are you terribly upset?”

“I’m not upset!” Arthur practically yells.

“No, Arthur, of course you’re not upset, you are the image of composure, please go on,” says Yusuf mechanically.

“Everyone on the tube overheard us having a domestic. An old lady thought I was talking to my boyfriend. She gave me a piece of fruit cake to take to him.”

“That’s nice,” says Ari, “You can take it to him after work.”

“I’m seeing Eames after work?”

“Well, yeah,” says Ari, as if he’s just said something ridiculous, which he actually hasn’t because he and Eames are not a couple by the way, “Someone’s got to take care of him when he’s ill.”

Arthur gives her a Look.

“Oh, come on, Arthur,” says Ari, “He doesn’t live far away. He’s just up on King Street, I think.”

“Queen Street,” Arthur corrects.

“Huh?” Ari and Yusuf ask simultaneously.

“Are you guys, like, twins or something? It’s Queen Street. I go round his. Sometimes.”

Arthur could swear that Ari and Yusuf just blinked at the same time. Arthur shrugs.

“I got bored one weekend. And the weekend after that. It’s kind of a habit.”

Yusuf raises an eyebrow.

“And you don’t go round to fuck?”

“No, Yusuf, I bloody well don’t!”

Yusuf widens his eyes and puffs out his cheeks.

“Wow, Eames has more willpower than I thought. He gets you alone and he _still_ doesn’t screw you into a wall? Man, no wonder he’s going crazy.”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“He’s not _that_ into me.”

His co-workers give him a _he-wants-to-cover-you-in-honey-and-lick-every-millimeter-of-your-skin_ look. Arthur can’t really respond to such a look, mostly because he’s imagining Eames licking honey off him, so instead he says, “Look, can’t you guys take care of him?”

“No,” Ari and Yusuf reply in unison.

“Why not?”

“We’re busy,” says Yusuf.

“Doing what?”

“Going out,” says Yusuf, at the same time Ari says, “Staying in.”

They exchange glances. Arthur narrows his eyes.

“I see how it is.”

His day’s quiet and uneventful without Eames there to pester him, and it’s true that he gets more work done, but he’s spectacularly bored. He decides that he hates Eames for just bounding in and messing his neatly ordered life and dashing off again, leaving a trail of wreckage behind him, and then he remembers that Eames _hasn’t_ left him, he’s just off work sick today and he is massively overreacting and he’s just drawn a penis on his financial report.

 

* * *

 

Arthur turns up on Eames’ doorstep at a few minutes past nine. He’s dishevelled – but only by Arthur’s standards. His tie is slightly askew, and his hair sticking up, not quite its usual rock-solid, gel-encased self.

“You look rough,” says Eames.

“Have you seen yourself?” asks Arthur.

Eames is a whole new _level_ of dishevelled. He’s wearing worn old pyjamas, barefoot, hair messy, unshaven, bags under his eyes. He pulls the door open wider.

“Get in here,” he says, pulling him in for a hug.

“Get off,” Arthur mumbles tiredly against Eames’ chest, in a way that really means _don’t you dare let go_ , “Don’t want your germs. Meeting on Friday. Need to be well.”

“Oh darling,” says Eames, catching their reflection in the mirror, “We are a pair.”

Arthur looks at the mirror, then promptly faceplants into Eames’ chest.

“Ugh. I look like a vampire. And you look like some kind of werewolf.”

“Ah, Halloween-themed illnesses.”

“Not ill, just tired. _Hellish_ journey home. Someone decided to kill themselves on the train track. Wouldn’t mind joining them.”

Eames chuckles, rubs Arthur’s back.

Arthur pulls away after a bit, because he’s hugging his co-worker in his hallway and, well.

“You got food?” he asks.

“Do pot noodles count as food?”

Arthur shrugs and heads into the kitchen. It’s a tiny galley kitchen, with only enough room for the two of them, and of course it’s very messy, even though Arthur has nagged him about it (until Eames said, “What are you, my girlfriend?” and he shut up).

“Mmm, cardboard and chemicals. Sounds great.”

“Top left,” says Eames, pointing to a cupboard. He shoves a heap of letters to one side and pushes himself up to sit on a kitchen counter.

Arthur fishes two pot noodles out of a particularly full cupboard and struggles with the packaging, fingers scrabbling over the plastic lids.

“None for me, thanks,” says Eames, “Stomach bug and all that.”

“Who said anything about you?” says Arthur, and rips both pots open with his teeth.

Eames laughs.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“Does nicotine gum count?”

Arthur fills the kettle and flicks the switch.

“Honestly, darling, what would you do without me?”

Arthur gives him a look.

“I wouldn’t be eating pot noodles on Monday night in the kitchen of my _extremely_ irritating co-worker, who I am only visiting out of the goodness of my heart.”

“ _Co-worker_? I think we’re a bit more than that, darling.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything to that, because the kettle boils. He pours the boiling water into the pots, then moans and flops down onto the only space available, which happens to be Eames’ lap.

“Can’t be bothered to stand up. Too much effort,” he mumbles into Eames’ t-shirt by way of explanation.

Eames ruffles his hair.

“I like it when you’re tired. You’re very cuddly.”

“’M _not_ cuddly,” Arthur says fiercely.

His words are somewhat negated by the fact that he has his arms around Eames’ waist and his head on his lap.

“Course you’re not, darling.”

Arthur looks up.

“Forks,” he says.

Eames opens the drawer next to him with his feet, which is a skill he learnt when he was very bored one Sunday afternoon, and pulls out a fork.

“That’s not exactly hygienic, Mr Eames,” says Arthur, hauling himself to his feet and taking another fork out of the drawer.

He stuffs it into one of the pot noodles and forks a heap of the stuff into his mouth.

“So – hungry,” he says, taking another huge bite.

“You’re so refined,” says Eames, reflecting that he’s probably more turned on than he should be by Arthur sucking up the noodles that are trailing out of his mouth.

“Like – you’re not –mm – enjoying – this,” Arthur manages in between bites.

He finishes both pots in record time, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Eames wonders if this is what Arthur having a mental breakdown looks like. Arthur points a finger at him.

“We will never speak of this again.”

“What, the time you turned up on my doorstep at nine in the evening and proceeded to eat every pot noodle in the house?”

“Yes. I must maintain some sense of professionalism.”

Eames looks at Arthur, his hair askew, eyes wide but obviously _knackered_ , fork still in his hand.

“I think you just lost that, darling.”

Arthur shrugs.

“Oh, well in that case, let’s fuck.”

Eames blinks.

“I _really_ like it when you’re tired.”

Of course, Arthur doesn’t follow through on his offer, because the Lord is testing Eames and _he_ fully intends to fail this test and sin his way to hell but _Arthur’s_ got this pure virginal thing going on and Eames has _really_ got to get around to corrupting him. They end up on the couch, watching _University Challenge_. It doesn’t really compare to a sexual experience, unless you’re _really_ into quizzes or something. Anyway, Eames isn’t, and he doesn’t know any of the answers because they’re _ridiculously_ difficult and he’s only got room in his head for _useful_ things, like how to build flat packed furniture or live off baked beans or get any woman hot under the collar from the other side of a room. At least he has his arm slung around the back of the couch, almost around Arthur’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Eames,” Arthur sighs, “I’m meant to be taking care of you. I’m really not doing a good job of it, am I? How are you?”

“Not my best.”

“That’s vague.”

“Alright. I was sick twice yesterday and three times today. My head hurts and my eyes hurt and I can’t get to sleep and I’m cold.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything.

“Find one hundred thousand to the power of a fifth,” asks Jeremy Paxman.

“Fuck if I know,” murmurs Eames, wondering who on earth could work _that_ out.

“Ten,” says Arthur, at the same time as Manchester’s team captain.

“Correct,” says Paxman.

Arthur smiles lazily.

“How?” says Eames, “Just – _how_?”

“I’m a Financial Analyst, remember? ‘S got a bit to do with numbers, love.”

Eames looks blank.

“At least you’re pretty,” sighs Arthur, turning back to the TV.

They sit in silence for a moment.

“Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“I’m ill. Can I have a cuddle?”

Eames slips his arm around Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur grumbles a little, but doesn’t show any real signs of resistance. Eames shifts so they’re lying on the couch, Eames’ arms over Arthur’s back, and Arthur’s head on Eames’ chest. Arthur wriggles halfheartedly.

“Have to go home,” he mumbles.

“Stay tonight.”

Arthur laughs.

“Now _there’s_ a proposition.”

He pushes himself up on Eames’ chest and looks down at him, hair falling into his eyes. Eames tries and fails not to imagine this in an _entirely_ different context.

“I don’t see how this is conducive to your recovery.”

“Oh, I’m feeling better already,” says Eames, and pulls Arthur back down.

“So are you gonna tell me what’s bothering you?” he asks, after a few moments of silence.

“Hmm?”

“You were _exceptionally_ pissy this morning. I mean, even for you. You haven’t been like that with me, since – well – when we first met.”

Arthur smiles wryly.

“How things have changed.”

Because, they kind of haven’t really. But then, Arthur wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t.

“It was nothing, don’t worry about it,” he says sleepily, “We’ve got a big meeting on Friday, it’s stressing me out a bit. Big financial review, all that stuff.”

He yawns and buries his face in Eames’ pyjama shirt.

“Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep,” he mumbles.

“I don’t mind,” says Eames, and pulls his arms around Arthur tightly.

They lie like that for a few moments, breathing falling into sync, until Arthur’s lying perfectly still, eyes shut, perfectly wrapped up in Eames, and Eames looks down at the sleeping man in his arms and whispers, “I love you, Arthur Levine.”

Arthur cracks one eye open.

“Go to sleep, Mr Eames.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s certainly awkward to wake up with something vibrating against your groin, but that’s exactly what happens to Arthur one Tuesday morning. He cracks one eye open and sees that he’s not in his flat. He’s in a small room with garish brown wallpaper that looks like it belongs in a dark, dark corner of the 1970s and a TV quietly playing the morning news. Arthur rubs his eyes. The morning light is muted by the (offensively yellow) curtains. He aches. There’s a twinge in his neck and his back is sore, like it’s been twisted. He guesses he must’ve fallen asleep on the sofa. Then he feels the sofa moving underneath him. Sofas don’t do that. At least, not when you haven’t taken some kind of drugs. Then they do all kinds of things. He looks down and sees that he’s lying on top of someone, and that someone happens to be Eames. His mind temporarily short-circuits. He lets out a sort of strangled yelp and scrambles away, falling off the sofa in the process and landing on the floor in a heap.

“Shit,” he says, “Ah, shit.”

Something is still vibrating against his groin. On closer investigation it turns out his phone is buzzing in his trouser pocket. He fishes it out because he’d rather deal with that than the disturbing situation involving him and Eames asleep on the sofa, which he’s really rather not think about right now. Or ever.

“Er, hello?” he says, voice thick and tired.

“Arthur, where are you?”

It’s Cobb. Arthur can’t really deal with his question right now because that involves dealing with the aforementioned situation, so instead he says, “Er, what? Why?”

“It’s ten o’clock,” says Cobb, “You’re an hour late for work. You’re never late.”

“Shit,” Arthur breathes, “Erm, I – I’ll get there as soon as I can, but, you know – trains and stuff, you know how it is.”

“No, I don’t. There aren’t any delays reported on the trains. I listened to BBC London in the car.”

“What was that, Cobb? I can’t hear you, you’re breaking up. I’ll talk more later, bye.”

“Arthur, where are you? Arthur –”

“Bye,” says Arthur, ending the call.

He groans and leans back against the sofa.

“Fuck,” he sighs.

Then he feels a hand in his hair, and he turns round and gives Eames his best fuck-you-with-a-screwdriver-Eames look.

“Morning,” says Eames, altogether too smugly.

“It is,” says Arthur, getting up and shoving Eames’ hand away.

“Going so soon?” asks Eames.

“I’m late for work,” says Arthur, brushing down his clothes in an attempt to make himself look presentable, “You know, that thing that some of us actually got to? I take it you’re not coming today, then.”

“I’m _ill_ ,” Eames says pitifully, hauling himself into a sitting position.

Arthur looks at him.

“Yeah, you do look like shit,” he agrees.

Eames grabs Arthur’s hand and pulls him into his lap, arms around his waist.

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur complains, squirming.

“Are you coming back tonight?” Eames asks.

“No, I’m bloody well not. You can look after yourself, for all that I care,” says Arthur, trying to get away.

Eames holds him fast.

“ _Arthur_.”

Arthur stops struggling and looks at him.

“Eames.”

Eames brushes Arthur’s unruly hair out of his eyes and kisses him on the forehead.

“Have a good day at work, darling.”

And Arthur feels a twinge in his stomach, because this is ridiculously domestic and the way that Eames is looking at him _hurts_ , and he lets out a small sigh and says, “Take care of yourself, OK?”

 

* * *

 

“What happened to you?” asks Cobb when Arthur walks into the office half an hour later.

Arthur gives him and everyone else who’s staring at him – which is the whole office – a get-the-fuck-back-to-work-you-plebs look. Arthur has many Looks. Only Eames is completely fluent in Arthurian Fuck-Yous, because he’s had the most experience in it.

“Nothing,” says Arthur.

“Why are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?” says Ari, poking her head through the door.

“What are you even _doing_ here, Ari? This is the Finance department, in case you can’t read the gigantic fucking sign on the wall!”

“Did you go round Eames’ last night?” says Yusuf gleefully, his head appearing above Ari’s.

“The same goes for you!” Arthur practically screams, “Go back to where you came from!”

“Racist,” says Yusuf.

“I meant the Pharmaceutical department, you idiot. Go on, both of you, leave!”

They make a quick exit, giggling, and Arthur sighs as if the world as personally wronged him. He sinks into his chair and logs onto the computer. He glances up five seconds later and sees Cobb, Ari and Yusuf standing around his desk.

“Can I help you?” he says, practically growling.

“What happened?” says Cobb.

“I missed my train.”

Ari raises an eyebrow. Yusuf widens his eyes. Cobb squints at him. Goddammit, Arthur can resist anything Ari and Yusuf fling at him, but he’s never been able to stand up to the scrutiny of The Squint.

“Alright, alright!” he says, holding up his hands, “I did go round Eames’ last night. Only because _some people_ who shall remain nameless forced me to.”

He glances up five seconds later and sees the entire office standing around his desk.

“ _Nothing happened_ ,” he says lowly.

Everyone nods in a yes-Arthur-we-believe-you way.

“No, really!” Arthur cries, “I was taking care of him! He’s ill! He’s off work! If anything had happened, don’t you think I’d be off work ‘sick’ too?”

“You have a point,” says Ari, “I don’t think we’d see you for the next fortnight.”

“I thought you said he’d tie me to the bed for ten days?”

“Yeah, but you’d need four days to recover from it.”

“So why were you late?” asks Cobb.

“I overslept. Not like that. I was sleeping on the couch!”

“Was Eames as well?” asks Yusuf.

“Goddammit, Yusuf!” Arthur swears, “Yes, OK, yes, but it was an accident. We were watching TV and it was late and we just fell asleep, OK!”

Everyone nods again.

“No, wait,” says Arthur, “I can prove it.”

He grabs his phone and calls Eames, putting him on speakerphone. Everyone leans in a bit closer to listen.

“Hello, darling,” says Eames, “Missing me already?”

“I’d just like to clarify something,” says Arthur, “Have we ever slept together?”

“Not that I recall, darling.”

Everyone sighs or says “I told you so,” and some money changes hands.

“Of course, you could change that if you liked, the offer’s always there,” Eames continues.

“Tell me that when you’re not disease-ridden and disgusting.”

“So you’ll consider it then?”

“Get off,” says Arthur, ending the call.

When he looks up, everyone is still standing around his desk, staring at him.

“What?”

“You have _dimples_ ,” says Ari.

“I don’t.”

“You do! When you’re talking to him, you get dimples. It’s adorable.”

“Shut up.”

Ari pinches his cheek, as if he’s the cutest thing she’s ever seen. That’s when Arthur decides enough is enough.

“Everyone, get back to work!” he demands.

“Go on, everyone,” Cobb agrees.

The crowd disperses, everyone except Ari and Cobb heading back to their desks. Arthur huffs, feeling very much put-upon. Cobb leans over, face serious.

“You two _really_ need to sort yourselves out,” he says.

“Thank you for your input,” says Arthur, not looking up from his computer screen.

“Er, Ari?” says Cobb, nodding in the direction of the door, “Back to work?”

“Oh, er, right,” says Ari, twisting her hair around her finger, “I’ll just, you know, go.”

Cobb smiles awkwardly after her as she leaves.

“Half your age,” says Arthur.

Cobb picks up a financial report from the desk and hits him over the head with it.

“And stop drawing penises on these,” he says, retreating to his desk.

 

* * *

 

Arthur half-moves in to Eames’ house that week. He goes back to his on Tuesday night to pick up some clothes and then goes back to Eames’. Eames is still pretty rough. He hurls into the toilet that evening and Arthur kneels next to him, rubbing circles into his back.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Bloody fabulous,” says Eames, breathing heavily and holding onto the toilet lid.

“Come on,” says Arthur, “Bed.”

He drags Eames into bed, and Eames drags Arthur into bed as well.

“What?” says Arthur.

“Want cuddles,” Eames mumbles.

“You are _pathetic_. No. This is ridiculous.”

Arthur scrambles out of bed and Eames whines mournfully. He lies there, feeling sick and alone and unloved, for all of five minutes. Then he feels someone crawling into the bed. Eames hums contentedly, pulling him nearer.

“Didn’t think you’d come back,” he says.

“I had to get changed into my pyjamas, idiot.”

Eames manhandles Arthur so they’re spooning. Arthur’s the little spoon, neatly tucked into Eames.

“ _Fine_ ,” Arthur sighs, “Just don’t throw up on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur remembers to set the alarm on his phone. He wakes up at a reasonable time on Wednesday, with his ridiculously annoying co-worker nuzzling at his ear and mumbling nonsense at him. It’s pretty surreal. This is what Arthur’s life has become. Dear Lord help him. He extricates himself from Eames, who is _very_ clingy in his sleep and has a shower. Eames is still asleep in bed by the time he’s got dressed. Arthur feels unreasonably fond when he looks down at Eames’ sleeping form. He sits on the edge of the bed and runs a finger along the side of Eames’ face. The easy intimacy of it startles him a little.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Mmmf.”

“I’ve gotta go to work now. I’ll see you this evening, yeah?”

And he doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t think anything of it, just leans over and kisses Eames on the cheek. Then he sits up straight and has an impromptu mini freak out because _how is this his life_. He doesn’t know the ins and outs of what exactly is acceptable within working relationships, but he’s pretty sure that he and Eames are way past that stage by now. But if they’re not colleagues then _what_ are they? Eames pesters him at work and makes him lunch and asks him round on weekends. Arthur tolerates his constant come-ons and takes care of him when he’s ill and _sleeps in his bed_. It’s getting a bit – close.

“You going or what?” Eames mumbles.

“Shut up, Mr Eames,” says Arthur, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

When he gets the tube that morning, there’s an elderly lady sitting with a handbag perched on her lap, smiling at him. The same one from Monday.

“How’s your boyfriend?” she asks.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Arthur says defensively.

The elderly lady just smiles more.

“He’s alright,” Arthur relents, “Still pretty sick though. I’m taking care of him.”

“Did you give him my fruit cake?”

“He’s not really well enough to eat anything at the moment.”

“Poor love.”

“Mm.”

 

* * *

 

“How’s the patient?” Ari asks that lunchtime, passing Arthur a coffee.

Arthur shrugs.

“Alright. Still throwing up though.”

“Lovely,” says Ari.

“You’re the one who made me take care of him,” Arthur reminds her, “You haven’t helped a bit.”

Ari shrugs.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Really.”

Ari nods, leaning in.

“I’m trying to seduce a certain member of the senior management team,” she says conspiratorially.

Arthur remembers the speech Saito gave when he gave them the afternoon off, or more importantly, the inappropriate comments Ari had made at the time. He grimaces. Really, _Saito_? He’d questioned her at the time, because really. Not only was he their boss, but he wasn’t exactly not much of a looker – at least, not if you’re a pretty twenty-something year-old.

“Why _him_?” Arthur asks.

His phone beeps. It’s Eames. Of course.

Eames, 1.30pm

_mums coming over 2nite after work. we wont be able 2 have rampant sex as per usual xx_

Ari sighs, looking over at Cobb, who’s talking to a group of their colleagues at the other side of the room. Arthur doesn’t look up from his screen.

Arthur, 1.31pm

_That’s a shame. I was looking forward to seeing you on your knees._

“I don’t know,” Ari admits, “I’ve just always liked older men. I had this massive thing for my teacher at college. There’s something sexy about someone with that much more _experience_. You know what I mean?”

Eames, 1.31pm

_oh fuck arthur im ill u shuldnt tease me lyk dis. the things u do 2 me_

Arthur does his best to maintain a neutral expression.

“No. I don’t.”

Arthur, 1.32pm

_I could do far worse things to you._

Ari snorts.

“Yeah, like you have more experience than Eames.”

Arthur kicks her under the desk.

“Ow,” Ari complains, but she forgets about it when Cobb looks over.

Eames, 1.32pm

_plz expand on dis statement_

Their eyes meet and she raises her hand in an awkward half-wave. He smiles and half-waves back.

“I mean, don’t you see something in him?” Ari asks, “You’ve known him longer than I have. You must’ve _considered_ it.”

“No. No, I really haven’t.”

“I think he’s just shy,” Ari decides, when Cobb turns away, blushing, “I mean, it’s been a while since he’s dated anyone. He just needs to get back into the swing of it. Get his confidence back. What do you think?”

Arthur, 1.33pm

_Maybe later. If you’re lucky._

“Hmm, yeah,” Arthur says, non-committal.

“Earth to Arthur,” says Ari, waving her hand in front of his face, “What do think I should do?”

Arthur looks up from his phone.

“Er, I don’t know.”

“Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?”

“Yes.”

Arthur’s phone beeps again.

“Who are you texting?”

“No-one.”

Ari makes a grab for Arthur’s phone. He ducks, but she snatches it all the same.

“Oh my God, Arthur!” she laughs, as Arthur leaps off his chair and starts to wrestle her, “You two _are_ naughty, aren’t you?”

“It’s not – like that,” Arthur cries.

“Catch!” Ari calls, throwing the phone to Yusuf, who’s just walked in.

His eyes widen as he looks at the screen.

“I really didn’t need that mental image,” he says, “But it’s good to know that you’re dealing with your sexual frustrations.”

Arthur gets off Ari and grabs his phone back from Yusuf. He looks at the text Eames just sent him.

Eames, 1.34pm

_i swear to god Arthur wen im well im goin2 fuck u in2 the mattres_

Arthur feels his face turn red, and Ari and Yusuf collapse into giggles.

“Get out!” he shouts, practically shoving them out of the door, “Now!”

Arthur, 1.36pm

_Ari and Yusuf saw that by the way._

Eames, 1.37pm

_shit. im stil goin2 fuck u tho._

Arthur, 1.38pm

_We’ll see about that._


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur gets home at about 6 o’clock, and promptly has a small revelation. _Home_. Yeah, he definitely thought that word. He’s never thought about his flat in that way. But he sees Eames’ house as home, and he really doesn’t know why. He spends enough time there, almost every weekend, but he doesn’t _live_ there. He just goes there to see Eames. He stops himself from thinking about that particular line of thought. It was just a slip of a tongue. In his mind. He lets himself in. Because he has the keys, even though this isn’t his home. Right. Arthur tells himself that it’s just easier this way, what with Eames ill, and he’ll give them back once he’s better, and soon Arthur will be back in his flat and not semi-living in Eames’ house, and everything will be normal and nice and fine and he won’t get this funny feeling in his stomach when he’s with Eames or gets a text from him or thinks about him. It’ll be fine then. He’ll be fine.

Eames and his mum are in the dining room. Eames is at the table, wrapped in a blanket and hunched over, childlike, and Stacy’s passing him a bowl or something that smells warm and delicious. Arthur has a sudden image of what they were like years ago, when Eames was a child, when it was just him and his mum. And then he realises that it’s kind of not like that anymore, because he’s here. He shakes himself. He’s not Eames’ _family_. He’s not anyone’s family anymore. He left his own years ago, and they’ve not exactly begged him to come back. They’ve not exactly even spoken to him. Not since he left.

“Hi,” says Arthur, stepping into the small room.

They both look up and smile, and _shit_. He’s got that weird feeling again, like these people matter, like they care about him, like he’s kind of become a part of their lives and that’s pretty bloody brilliant.

“I don’t know who to kiss first,” says Arthur.

Eames smiles weakly, looking paler than usual.

“You look most depressed,” Arthur decides, kissing him on the cheek, then Stacy.

Arthur wonders vaguely at what point exactly it became normal for him to kiss Eames as a form of greeting. A very small, very irritating part of his brain chooses that moment to think the word _boyfriend_.

“Hello, darling,” says Stacy, “How have you been?”

“Alright, thanks,” Arthur replies, taking a seat, “Even though I’ve been putting up with your son this whole week.”

“Think yourself lucky, I had him for eighteen years.”

“I am here, you know,” says Eames, a little grumpily.

“Ssh,” Arthur says consolingly, reaching out a hand to stroke the back of Eames’ neck.

He turns to Eames’ mum.

“You’re a much better nurse than me. This soup smells great.”

“Thank you, darling,” says Stacy, “I made enough for all of us. I’ll just go get ours.”

She heads off to the kitchen and Eames promptly drops his spoon and pulls Arthur closer, burying his face in Arthur’s neck and exhaling.

“You alright?” asks Arthur, still stroking Eames’ neck, fingers in his hair.

Eames makes a small injured sound.

“Just want to be _better_ ,” he grumbles.

“You will be soon.”

Eames shifts a little closer, mutters lowly, “And then?”

“And then I can go back home and actually have some personal space again.”

“That’s no fun.”

“Neither is having you dripping on me.”

Eames _humphs_.

“Don’t like you anymore.”

“You seemed quite keen this afternoon.”

“That was when you were implying I should pay your nursing me with sexual favours.”

Arthur chuckles, pushes him away gently.

“Eat your soup. You’ll feel better.”

Eames grumbles, giving him an I’d-rather-just-cuddle-you look, which they both know Arthur is strangely susceptible to.

“Go on, eat,” says Arthur, wrangling out of Eames’ grip.

He kisses his cheek, quick and quiet, but then Eames leans forward slightly, and they both just kind of freeze. Arthur’s face still close against Eames’, and they’re not touching, there’s just warm breath between them, and Eames wasn’t expecting that, and neither was Arthur, he really wasn’t, because, _fuck_.

And that’s when Stacy bowls in with the soup, and they jump apart instinctively, and whatever _that_ was, it’s gone. So Arthur tries not to think about what just happened and grabs his spoon.

“This looks delicious,” he says, shovelling the soup into his mouth.

“You mean the soup?” Eames whispers unhelpfully and Arthur nearly spits it out.

“I always make it when someone’s ill,” says Stacy, sitting down to eat, “I’ve played nurse a fair amount over the years. Have you been getting on alright with it?”

“I’m not a natural,” says Arthur, “But I think I’m getting better at it.”

“You have to remember to take care of yourself, though,” Stacy fusses, “You look very thin, darling. Have you been eating?”

Arthur smiles slightly at her motherly tutting.

“Yes.”

“Drinking lots of water?”

“Yes.”

“Sleeping well?”

“Yes. Well, until Eames steals the duvet.”

Stacy and Eames simultaneously choke on their soup. Then Arthur realises what he’s just said, and can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. He’s leaning towards the latter.

“I didn’t mean – er, well, I did, but I didn’t – not that we, because we aren’t –” he begins, furiously backpedalling.

“Darling, stop digging,” says Eames, reaching over and squeezing his hand.

Stacy raises her eyebrows and goes back to her soup, and Arthur gets the strange feeling that he’s kind of just made his relationship with Eames official. Even though they’re actually not together. Because. They’re just _not_ , okay. No matter what anyone else says.

“So…” Arthur begins awkwardly, “How’s work?”

 

* * *

 

Arthur ends up doing the washing-up, partly because he’s a good person contributing to the household tasks and responsibilities within the family (and because, let’s face it, he looks good in an apron and marigolds), but mostly because he’s trying to avoid Eames and his mother. Unfortunately he isn’t alone for long, because Stacy corners him after about ten minutes of quiet Fairy Liquid-based self-loathing.

“I’ll dry,” she says.

“You really don’t need to.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.”

Stacy smiles and grabs a tea towel, and Arthur bites his lip and tries to carry on as if he didn’t just embarrass himself in front of his colleague’s mother again. They work in awkward silence for about half a minute.

“Have you fucked my son yet?” Stacy asks, putting the spoons in a drawer.

Arthur blinks, nearly smashes a bowl.

“God, you don’t beat about the bush, do you?”

Stacy shrugs.

“I think it’s generally best to be direct. I thought that was your view too, considering what you shouted at me in the park.”

Arthur winces.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”

“So?” Stacy prompts him.

“What? Oh, right. Still, no.”

“ _Really_.”

“Really!” Arthur protests.

He frowns. “Why do you look so disappointed?”

Stacy rolls her eyes and puts her hands on her hips.

“Because, darling, he’s in love with you.”

“No. No, he’s not. I still don’t believe that,” Arthur scoffs, shaking his head.

“Then what about believing this: you’re in love with him.”

Arthur really feels like there should be some kind of rule against having really serious conversations about emotions and relationships while wearing rubber gloves.

“I – you don’t –” he begins, can’t finish.

“You’re not denying it.”

“Stop talking and I’ll deny it.”

“Arthur –”

“ _No_! Alright, just, _no_. I’m sorry, Mrs Eames. I know you want me to love him. But wanting’s not enough. I’m not ready to get my heart broken again and that’s _exactly_ what he’ll do.”

He bites his lip, rips off those stupid rubber gloves and locks himself in the downstairs bathroom until Eames head upstairs to bed and Stacy leaves.

 

* * *

 

He slips into Eames’ bed about an hour later, hoping he’ll be asleep. He’s not. He mumbles, “Took your time,” and pulls him close, wrapping his arms around him like a human octopus. Arthur shouldn’t want to kiss him as much as he does.

“Was mum interrogating you earlier?” Eames asks, voice low and mumbling.

“A bit.”

“You should really stop venting your sexual frustrations at her.”

“Mmm.”

“You should vent them at me instead. It’d be far more constructive.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I quite like older women.”

“ _Arthur_.”

Eames rolls over and practically crushes him.

“Get off,” Arthur says testily, pushing him away a little too roughly.

“OK, OK,” says Eames calmingly.

He rolls off, but he’s closer than he was before, their legs tangled together.

“What did she say?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“Mum.”

“Oh. Same as before, mostly.”

“What was that?”

Arthur tries to keep his voice level as he says, “You’re in love with me.”

Eames doesn’t say anything.

“Of course,” says Arthur, “I told her you weren’t. Again. I mean, she’s ridiculous. Loving someone’s not the same as wanting to fuck them.”

His breath is tight in his throat when he speaks again.

“She said – she said I was in love with you, too.”

“And what did you say?”

Arthur turns his head to one side, so he doesn’t have to face Eames when he says this, because it hurts, it bloody _hurts_.

“I said I’m not that stupid.”

“Right,” Eames says, quick and bitter, “Right.”

He takes Arthur’s head and turns him back to face him.

“You know, darling, half the time, I don’t think you know what you want.”

He looks at him, perfectly still.

“And half the time, I think that maybe you do, you just don’t want to admit it.”

Arthur feels a sudden and inexplicable desire to punch Eames in his stupid handsome face and then make out with him equally viciously. He suppresses that desire, even as Eames shifts closer.

“Don’t,” Arthur says, “Just – don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t _anything_.”

Eames tucks his head in the crook of Arthur's neck and they lie there, perfectly still, and Arthur feels like his heart is screaming something at him that he really doesn’t want to hear.

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s in a dreadful mood the next day. He leaves that morning without saying goodbye to Eames and feels guilty for it, because now Eames will wake up on his own, and then he decides that he is being ridiculous and he should just get his head down and focus on his work, and he does, for all of five minutes, until Dom comes in with a child on each arm and by then Arthur’s so tense he snaps the pencil he’s holding in two.

“Uncle Arfur!” James cries, grinning broadly, and it’s so cute that Arthur forgets his intense rage at the world for a moment.

“You know our insurance doesn’t cover minors,” he says, as Dom sets his children down and they both leap onto Arthur’s lap.

“OK, OK,” says Dom, “I know it’s not ideal. But what could I do? The babysitter’s ill.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard there’s a bug going round,” Arthur says pointedly.

“I don’t have anywhere else to put them. I can’t exactly stay at home with them. We’ve got that meeting with Fischer tomorrow – which you, incidentally, should be preparing for.”

“I was, before your spawn decided to destroy my notes,” says Arthur, trying to stop his godchildren from completely obliterating his workstation.

“Philippa, USB cables aren’t meant for eating,” says Dom, with the air of a man who’s said that many times before.

Arthur prises the aforementioned USB cable from Philippa’s hands.

“Well, I can’t work with these two under my feet.”

Philippa gives him a baleful look that either means _I heard that_ or _give me that USB cable back_. Probably the latter. Arthur kisses her forehead in apology.

“Well, what else can I do with them?” Dom groans.

“Morning,” says Ari brightly, stepping into the office with two mugs of coffee.

“Oh, thank God,” says Arthur, holding out his hand to take the coffee.

Ari hands one mug to Dom and sips from the other. Arthur sighs and slumps in his chair.

“You don’t love me anymore,” he says sadly, to himself.

“These work experience kids get younger every year,” says Ari, nodding towards the children.

Dom smiles.

“I didn’t know what to do with them,” he explains, “The babysitter’s ill.”

“And Arthur’s the best alternative?” says Ari, watching Arthur forcibly drag the children away from his computer, “I don’t think he really knows a lot about looking after children.”

“I do!” says Arthur, “I have _Eames_.”

“Fair point.”

“I don’t suppose you’re any good with kids?” Dom asks Ari hopefully.

She narrows her eyes.

“Are you asking me to watch them for the day?”

“Maybe?”

“I will. But you owe me one.”

“Oh, _thank you_ , Ari. You’re a lifesaver.”

Dom kisses Ari’s hand and she smiles and blushes.

“I’ll make it up to you however you like,” he gushes, “Getting you dinner, helping you with work –”

“Sexual favours?”

“Er… Well, um, uh, yes?” Dom stammers.

“I’ll hold you to it,” says Ari.

“Right. Yup. Good.”

She turns to the kids.

“Come on, you two gremlins,” she says, putting her coffee on Arthur’s desk to bundle James in her arms and take Philippa’s hand, “Auntie Ari’s got you for today.”

“I’ll see you kids later,” Dom calls after them, as Arthur grabs Ari’s coffee and drains it in a single gulp, “Be good!”

“Bye, daddy!” says Philippa, waving as Ari drags her out of the room.

The door swings shut.

“Did you _kiss her hand_?” Arthur asks.

“I think I did.”

“Did you just get pulled?”

“I hope I did.”

Arthur frowns. He thought it was _Saito_ Ari liked. Which was frankly a bit weird, but, you know, whatever floats your boat. He thinks back to what Ari said to him before, but he can’t really remember much. He realises that every time she’s talked to him about her crush he’s been distracted by Eames. That probably explains it. He throws a pen at Dom, hitting the side of his head.

“Stop looking so smug,” he says.

Dom doesn’t stop grinning.

“Oh, come on. You’ve got to admit, she’s pretty hot. Even if you don’t, you know, like the ladies. Which is cool, by the way. I love you anyway.”

“Er? Yeah, she’s, she’s a pretty girl,” says Arthur, not really expecting Dom’s sudden outpouring, “I love you too, by the way.”

Sometimes he forgets Dom can be like that. Sometimes he forgets how much Dom loves him. Dom comes over and envelops him in a hug.

“Really, Arthur, you’re like my brother. We’re family, you know that?”

Arthur’s stomach lurches at that word, _family_. He’d thought he didn’t have any. He’s starting to think he might have a bit more than he thought. He doesn’t really know why that hurts.

“Alright, alright,” he says gruffly, pulling away, “Moment over, we never have to say that again.”

Dom laughs.

“But really, Arthur, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How’s things? You know, with Eames?”

“He had some soup yesterday, but he’s still pretty ill. I don’t think he’ll come back ‘til Monday at the earliest.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Arthur looks down.

“Not too brilliantly.”

“What happened?”

Arthur bites his thumbnail.

“I kind of – said I didn’t believe he loved me. And then I said I didn’t love him.”

Dom winces.

“ _Ouch_.”

“And now I’m really regretting it.”

“Why’d you say it, then?”

“I don’t know! I was scared, I guess.”

“What of?”

Arthur shrugs.

“Getting hurt? Being close to people hasn’t exactly worked out well in the past.”

“You can’t let what happened stop you from being happy now.”

“But I don’t trust that he won’t just leave me.”

“So you’re going to push him away now before he has the chance to?”

“I guess… that was the plan.”

“It’s a shit plan.”

“I _know_ ,” Arthur moans, flopping down onto his desk, “Oh God, this is so _stupid_. Why did this happen to me?”

Dom pats him on the back consolingly.

“Because you’re an emotionally stunted freak of nature,” he says, “But come on, you can still put it right. Just – tell him how you feel.”

“I feel a lot of things. Mostly hate.”

“Just tell him the good feelings.”

Arthur moans quietly in pain.

“Oh _God_ ,” Dom cries, “Can you please stop emoting all over the place and just _admit_ you’re madly in love with him and then fuck for ten days straight and never leave each other ever again? Please? For me.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Well, I don’t see why it can’t be.”

“Because I’m an emotionally stunted freak of nature.”

Dom ruffles his hair affectionately.

“God, you’re hard work. I have no idea why he loves you.”

“No,” says Arthur, “Neither do I.”


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur gets through the rest of the day alright. If by ‘alright’ you mean constantly checking his phone, groaning occasionally, consuming nothing but ten mugs of coffee, struggling to fight the urge to have a fag or ten, and questioning the purpose of his existence. Apart from that he’s perfectly fine. By the end of the day he’s finished the financial reports ready for the meeting tomorrow and given them to Cobb to look over. He’s twitchy and irritable and gloomy and he just wants to go back to his apartment and curl into a ball and scream into his pillow and eat loads of chocolate because he is actually a teenage girl.

“Arthur, these reports…” says Cobb, wandering over to Arthur’s desk, where he’s currently engaged in the very constructive activity of leaning his head on the desk and groaning quietly because it means he doesn’t have to go home and face Eames.

“Yes?” says Arthur, not bothering to move.

“You seem to have got a little distracted.”

“Huh?”

Cobb clears his throat and starts reading from the reports.

“The projected figures for this year are shit I don’t know what to fucking do what if he loves me I think he does oh God what if he does oh God oh God as the charts on page 4 show the financial sector of _Extractions Inc._ has been particularly lucrative in March due to the increased levels of holy fuck I really need him oh God oh God why.”

He looks up.

“And then there’s just a really long keyboard smash.”

Arthur grabs the reports from him.

“I mean, it’s fine if you want to have an emotional crisis,” says Cobb, “But please don’t do it over the financial reports. The meeting’s _tomorrow_ , Arthur. You need to fix this.”

“This is going to take me all night.”

“You can’t stay here and do it. Go home, look after Eames, do it there.”

Arthur gives him an I-can’t-go-home-and-be-in-the-presence-of-that-man-and-focus-on-financial-reports-I-just-can’t look.

“Well, tough,” says Cobb, who knows Arthur well enough to know exactly what the look means, “You’re just going to have to.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Arthur huffs.

“Hey, boys.”

Arthur and Cobb look up to see Ari entering the office, Cobb’s children physically attached to her like adorable blonde limpets. James seems to be asleep, his head buried in Ari’s shoulder, and Philippa’s holding her hand, looking very tired.

“Go on, sweetheart, show daddy your picture,” says Ari, pushing the little girl forwards.

Philippa stumbles towards her father and he picks her up, crushing her in a hug.

“Hello,” he says, kissing her, “Have you been a good girl for auntie Ari?”

“Yes! I drawed you a picture,” says Philippa, holding out a crumpled piece of paper.

Cobb picks it up to look at it.

“What’s this?” he asks, squinting at the colourful scribbled mess.

“It’s I and you and Jam-Jams and everybody.”

Cobb holds up the picture so Arthur can see it. Arthur guesses that the stick figure frowning and wearing a suit is him, Cobb’s the one with a beard and squinting eyes, Miles is the one with grey hair and a speechbubble saying ‘I’m British’, Ari’s the one with eyelashes, and Philippa and James are the small ones. The title at the top of the page says _Mi faimliy_. Sometimes, Arthur thinks his goddaughter is going to kill him with cuteness.

“That’s great,” says Cobb.

He points to a smiling face inside a square at the bottom of the picture.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Mummy.”

Cobb looks down and Arthur bites his lip because they both know what she’s drawn, the picture of Mal that Cobb keeps on the mantelpiece, young and happy, when they’d first met. Arthur has the same picture on his bedside table. He’s the one who took it. It hurts to look at it.

“Did they behave themselves?” Cobb asks Ari.

“Oh, they were good as gold,” she says, brushing James’ hair out of his face, “Weren’t you, baby?”

James stirs a little, clinging to her tightly, and Ari smiles at Cobb. And Arthur realises that Ari adores Cobb and the children, and they’re a family, or they could be. They’d be a pretty bloody perfect one. All of a sudden, he feels like he’s intruding on them.

“Thanks, Ari,” says Cobb.

Ari shrugs with the shoulder that doesn’t have a toddler attached to it.

“Oh, I’m just being a good friend, me.”

“You know you’re more than that.”

“Am I now?”

“Um, listen, I owe you for looking after the kids – can I buy you dinner?”

“You can.”

Cobb doesn’t break eye contact with Ari as he says, “Arthur, you and Eames are babysitting next Friday night.”

“Oh great, now I’ll have three kids to look after,” says Arthur.

“Come on,” says Cobb, depositing Philippa on the floor, “Let’s get you home.”

He takes James from Ari, even though he complains a little, and kisses Ari on the cheek before he goes. She smiles and waves goodbye to the kids, then promptly collapses onto Arthur’s desk the minute they’re out of the door.

“Oh my God, he’s perfect,” she says, covering her head with her hands.

“Go away, and take your disgustingly adorable romance with you,” says Arthur.

“But the kids are _adorable_ , Arthur, I love them, and he asked me to _dinner_ , how old-fashioned and cute is that, and I just want to be ridiculously domestic and bake cakes and argue whose turn it is to put the kids to bed and _ugh_.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, because they really are sickeningly perfect.

“Your parents are going to flip,” he says, because he knows them, and they really will.

“I _know_. Oh God, it’s going to be so awkward. What am I going to say?”

“Just – tell them you’ve met a boy. And then later tell them that the boy is actually a fortysomething-year-old man with two children and a heap of emotional baggage.”

Ari laughs and looks up.

“I love you,” she says.

“Why is everyone saying that today? Am I looking exceptionally unloved?”

“Oh, who else said it? Was it Eames? Has he finally admitted his love for you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ari, he said it on Monday. Well, that was the first time to my face. He wrote it in alphabet sweets before, but I’m only counting Monday.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him to go to sleep. We were in bed. Well, on the couch. But we were going to sleep on it.”

Ari raises her eyebrows.

“So he shagged you on the sofa, said he loved you, and you told him to shut up?”

“Yes. Apart from that first bit.”

“You should have said it back.”

“Maybe I didn’t because I don’t feel that way,” says Arthur quickly, getting up and stuffing the financial reports in his bag.

“You mean you don’t love him?”

“Not necessarily.”

Ari gives him a what-are-you-on-Arthur look.

“Not necessarily? Either you do or you don’t. Well, actually, you blatantly do.”

“Why is everyone saying _that_ as well?”

“Because it’s obvious.”

Arthur pauses and gives her a truly crushing bitchface. Ari just laughs and kisses him on the cheek.

“Oh, darling, darling,” she says, ruffling his hair.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your darling.”

“No. You’re Eames’.”

Arthur tries very hard not to scream.

“You should really tell him you love him, you know,” says Ari, “Then I won’t have to deal with you angsting all the time because you haven’t been thoroughly fucked yet.”

“Thank you for that thoughtful contribution.”

“Come on, like you don’t want it.”

Arthur sighs.

“Yeah, but it’s not just like that, is it? It comes with all this other shit as well. Like living together or making compromises or sacrifices or falling in love.”

“But it’s all that other shit that makes it worthwhile in the first place. That’s why you’re with someone anyway. Because you want the other shit.”

“But that’s why it hurts when it ends.”

“Who says it has to end?”

Arthur shakes his head.

“I don’t want it to even _start_.”

“Arthur, it already has.”

He knows she’s right.

 

* * *

 

When Arthur gets home, Eames is standing in the kitchen doorway. He has a hand on the doorframe and he seems so tall and so _big_ , so much stronger than Arthur’s ever thought he was, and he’s looking at him like he’s angry – no, not _angry_ , more like sad. And then Arthur knows that this probably isn’t going to go well.

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” says Eames, breaking the silence.

“Of course I came. Why wouldn’t I?”

Eames shrugs.

“Maybe because you don’t love me?”

Arthur sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

“ _Eames_ …”

“No, it’s fine. Really. I’m feeling better now, anyway. I can go back to work tomorrow.”

“ _Eames_.”

“I don’t need you, Arthur. Go home.”

Arthur steps closer, reaches out towards him, but Eames backs away.

“It’s _fine_ , Arthur. I got the message. I’ll back off. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve always wanted. It’s not like you didn’t tell me. It’s not like you didn’t keep telling me. I just didn’t want to listen.”

“Eames, please, just listen to me.”

“Listen to _what_ , Arthur? What are you going to say? That it doesn’t matter? That we can still be friends? Don’t pull that bullshit on me, I know it’s not true. I know you don’t mean it.”

Arthur grabs onto Eames’ shirt desperately, both hands grabbing the fabric.

“You’re not listening,” he says.

“I listened last night, Arthur,” says Eames, pushing him away, “When you said you don’t love me. Remember that?”

“Eames –”

“And you know what the worst thing was? You said that I don’t love you.”

Eames pushes Arthur against the wall, crowding him in, and Arthur feels very, very small.

“Well, fuck you,” he says savagely, “Because I fucking do.”

He puts a hand to Arthur’s face, and looks at him hard, like he wants to hurt him. And Arthur knows that he doesn’t, not really, because he couldn’t, he never could.

“I don’t know why,” Eames says bitterly, “It’s not like you give a shit about me.”

“I _do_ , Eames! You fucking idiot, I –”

“I don’t want to hear it. Honestly, it’s – it’s okay. I’m thinking about heading off again. Going back to my old job or something. Mum will understand. I’ll hand in my resignation tomorrow.”

Arthur shakes his head, grabs at Eames again, fingernails digging into his waist.

“No, _no_ ,” he pleads, “Don’t go.”

Eames smiles, but it’s full of hurt.

“My darling,” he says, running his thumb over Arthur’s lower lip, “When you say that, I almost believe you care.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur breathes, and now he’s trying not to cry, “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I _do_.”

“But not in the way I want.”

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ ,” says Arthur, and he grabs Eames’ head, drags him closer and kisses him.

He bites at Eames’ lower lip until he bleeds and shoves his tongue into Eames’ mouth and tastes him, blood sharp and metallic. He kisses him desperately, presses their bodies together, like he can’t stop, like he won’t ever stop. And Eames pulls away.

“No,” he says, breathless, “No.”

Arthur follows him, holds onto him, presses his fingers into him.

“Why not?” he says, and Eames turns his head away, so Arthur kisses his neck, bites at it, savage and frantic, teeth and tongue.

“Because you don’t love me,” says Eames, pushing Arthur away, “It doesn’t mean anything unless you love me. I wouldn’t have cared when we first met. But now – I want you, Arthur, I want all of you, I want to be _with_ you. And you don’t want that.”

Arthur backs him against the wall, kisses him again to shut him up, because he doesn’t want Eames saying this, he just wants him to stop talking because he hasn’t worked out what he wants yet, not other than Eames on him, now.

Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s hips and pushes him away, gently.

“I’m sorry, darling. I can’t do it. I used to be able to, but now… I think you’ve ruined it for me. I only want you.”

“Then _have_ me.”

“Say you love me, and I will.”

“ _Eames_.”

“Say it.”

Arthur looks down.

“You can’t, can you?”

Eames smiles and touches Arthur’s face, gentle, like a lover.

“Thank you for not lying to me, at least.”

“Please, Eames, I _need_ you.”

Eames shakes his head.

“Darling, that’s not love.”

“It’s close enough.”

“Can I have my keys back, please?”

Arthur fishes them out of his pocket and hands them over. This isn’t his home. It never was. It was stupid to think it was. Eames opens the front door.

“You know, I really thought we could’ve had something,” he says sadly.

“We still could.”

“Goodbye, Arthur.”

Arthur kisses him before he goes because he doesn’t know how _not_ to. He doesn’t know how he can leave Eames without kissing him gently, hand around his neck, brushing against the bruises he’s left there. He doesn’t know why kissing Eames just feels like the end. Because it shouldn’t be.

“Goodbye, Mr Eames,” he says softly, and this is wrong, this is all wrong, and he knows it but he can’t stop it.

Eames shuts the door behind him. Arthur’s two streets away when he starts crying. He gulps in air and cries, collapsing against the wall of a run-down shop, hugging his knees to his chest, the evening air cool, the sky still light. He covers his mouth with his hand to stop the noise, and sits there, shaking, because he’s lost Eames and he’s never going to have him, not ever. It’s not fucking fair.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur _never_ cries. It’s not because boys don’t cry, and it’s not because he’s a heartless bastard. It’s because he can’t bear to lose control like that, to just give himself over to his emotions. If he hurts he hurts somewhere no-one can see it, and then that means it practically doesn’t exist. Who cares that you’re falling apart if they can’t see it? No-one. So Arthur gets up and gets on with it, because no-one else cares and that means it doesn’t matter. It’s a shock that he’s crying now, that he’s actually _allowing_ himself to do this. Eames has made him not care what he looks like, what other people think. Eames has done a lot of things to Arthur, and he doesn’t understand most of them. He doesn’t understand a lot of things recently.

Arthur sits in the street and cries because Eames loves him for approximately six minutes. And then he stops, because someone tells him to. That someone is a familiar old lady.

“Oh, dear,” she says, “Are you alright?”

Arthur looks up through wet eyelashes and recognises her straightaway as the elderly woman on the tube – the one who gave him some fruit cake to give to Eames.

“I’ve been better,” he chokes out.

The lady produces a handkerchief from her pocket and Arthur takes it, hands shaking, and smothers his face in it.

“Don’t cry,” she says, and Arthur doesn’t.

He takes slow, heavy breaths, calming himself down, and he stops crying.

“Thank you,” he says, holding the handkerchief out towards her.

“You keep it. You never know when it might come in useful.”

Arthur gives her a watery smile. His face is hot and his eyelids are heavy and he feels like shit, to be quite honest.

The elderly lady sits down next to him.

“Now, what’s this about?” she asks gently.

Arthur decides to tell her, because it’s not like this situation can get much worse, and he’s quite up for wallowing in his sorrows a little more.

“You know – you know the man I was arguing with on the phone?”

“Your boyfriend.”

“We had an argument.”

“And you split up?”

“Effectively, yes.”

“Why did you argue?”

“I – I said that I don’t love him. That I never have.”

The woman gives a short little laugh and looks at Arthur.

“Well, not for nothing, dear, but you’re crying an awful lot for someone who’s not in love.”

Arthur rubs his eyes, frowns, because there’s pressure in his head and he can’t get it out.

“How long have you been together?”

“We weren’t –” Arthur begins, and then he stops.

Because, they _were_. All this time, Arthur’s been saying they weren’t in a relationship, and they _were_. They flirted, they went on dates, they spent time together. Arthur met Eames’ mother and took care of Eames when he was ill and slept in his bed with him. And that’s what a relationship _is_. It’s not the sex, it’s the other shit. It’s living together and making compromises and sacrifices and falling in love. And they’ve been doing that other shit for a long time now.

“We met five months ago,” Arthur says.

“And you’ve been together all that time?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

It hits Arthur then: he’s just broken up with his long-term boyfriend. How on _earth_ has he only just realised that?

“Is that too soon to fall in love with someone?” he asks.

“Of course not. You can fall in love the moment you meet someone. Sometimes, you just _know_. You meet someone and they make you feel whole. That’s how I felt when I met my Ernie. Dashing young soldier, he was. I met him at a dance, and I knew, that was it. I wanted to be in his arms forever. He made me so happy. But it was an easy happiness, the kind when you don’t even realise you’re happy. My friends would say to me, ‘What are you smiling about?’, and it was just because I was thinking about him. He asked me to marry him after two weeks. I said yes. We set up home together and I felt like that was where I belonged, under his roof, in his bed.”

Arthur looks down at the crumpled handkerchief in his hands.

“That’s how he makes me feel,” he says quietly.

It’s true. Eames makes him happy in a way that he hasn’t been for a very, _very_ long time. And he does it without trying. Like he knows Arthur off by heart, like he just _knows_ what to do.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Arthur says, “I’m in love with him, aren’t I?”

“I think you are. You should tell him.”

Arthur nods.

“I will. Tomorrow. I can’t – I can’t do it now. He’s still angry at me. But tomorrow. I’ll tell him then.”

The old lady smiles.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

Real life isn’t like the movies. Arthur doesn’t run back to Eames to declare his love. He goes back to his flat and edits his financial reports. It calms him down, the work, and by the time he’s finished it’s 5am and he gets two hours of sleep. He doesn’t sleep well, even though he’s exhausted. It’s like he can’t get comfortable without Eames wrapped around him like a giant sleep octopus. Arthur wakes up alone. He checks his phone. No new messages, no _morning beautiful_ from Eames. He feels empty. He didn’t know there was a hole in him until Eames filled it. Now it’s there again and he can’t stop it from hurting.

 

* * *

 

Arthur gets into work early and promptly downs three mugs of coffee in the space of four minutes. Then he comes down into the entrance hall where everyone’s waiting to greet Fischer and tries to act like a normally-functioning human being.

“Financial reports,” he says cheerily, riding his caffeine high, dumping the heap of paper into Cobb’s arms.

“Did you sleep last night?” asks Cobb, looking at the bags under Arthur’s eyes.

“Nope.”

“How’s Eames?”

“Oh, he’s fine. He’ll be in to work today, he’s feeling much better. Well, apart from the fact that he’s heartbroken and betrayed, so he’s not feeling great on an emotional level, but physically, all’s good and dandy.”

“Arthur,” says Cobb slowly, “What happened?”

“Basically, everything went to shit,” says Arthur jauntily, with the manic happiness of the sleep-deprived.

“You – what, broke up?”

“Essentially. But don’t worry about it, we’ve got a big day ahead of us, can’t keep Fischer waiting, eh?”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown!” Arthur says, grinning terrifyingly.

“Oh _God_ ,” Cobb says under his breath.

Fischer comes in, and Arthur feels himself inch even closer to that nervous breakdown.

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Arthur whispers furiously to Cobb as Saito goes to shake hands with their new business associate.

“He’s having a big meeting with us about a potential merger?” says Cobb, as if Arthur has lost his mind.

(To be fair, he’s not far off losing it by this point.)

“Yes, but that’s _Robert_ Fischer!” says Arthur, “I thought his _father_ was coming?”

“He was going to, but he’s ill. Robert’s in charge of the company for the time being. It makes sense. He is going to inherit it one day.”

“Oh, _great_ ,” Arthur mumbles, facepalming, as Fischer and his entourage head towards them.

“Is there a problem?”

“You have no idea.”

“Arthur?” says Fischer as he comes closer, looking at him in surprise.

Arthur slaps on a smile that’s bordering on demonic and shakes his hand.

“Robert,” he says, “Long time no see.”

“Well, yes. It’s been what – five, six years?”

“Something like that.”

“How have you been?”

“Good. You?”

“Alright. Busy.”

“Yeah. I guess so. You’ve got a lot to do nowadays. Not like how things used to be.”

Robert looks Arthur up and down, the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“No, things used to be quite different,” he says, “Didn’t they?”

Arthur shrugs.

“I suppose they did.”

“Oh dear,” says Fischer, catching sight of something on the first-floor balcony overlooking the entrance hall, “Have I upset someone?”

Arthur follows his gaze and sees Eames, standing there, giving Fischer a look so intense it could probably burn him at a closer proximity.

“Your boyfriend?” Fischer asks.

“It’s complicated,” says Arthur.

“Us-complicated?”

“No, that was always pretty straightforward.”

“It was. Look, I’d better get on, but it’s great to see you again. Listen, find me later. I want to talk to you.”

He smiles and goes on his way.

Cobb gives Arthur a furious squint that questions the very meaning of his existence.

“What was _that_ about?” he whispers viciously, grabbing Arthur by the elbow and leading him up the stairs with everyone else.

“Well, I _did_ say there was a problem.”

“Yes, but what you _didn’t_ say was that you and _Robert Fischer_ used to screw!”

“It was _years_ ago! I got an internship at the company. My father told me to do everything I could to get a good reference.”

“Including screwing the boss’s son?”

“It just _happened_! It was ages ago! It doesn’t even matter now!”

“It _will_ matter when I have to explain to the relevant authorities why Robert Fischer has been stapled to death by _your boyfriend_!”

“Oh, come on. Eames isn’t going to do anything.”

“You wanna bet?” says Cobb, looking at Eames.

To be fair, he has a point. Eames does look like he’s planning the immediate dismemberment of Robert Fischer.

“You need to talk to him,” Cobb insists.

“Oh yes, Dom, because that worked so well last time.”

“I _mean_ it, Arthur. I don’t want a murder enquiry on our hands. It’s not good for business.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but then Cobb shoves him towards Eames and he half-lands on him. Eames catches him, then pushes him away.

“Well, aren’t you the dark horse?” he says.

“What?”

“You and Fischer. Is that how it is? Career progression? Fuck a higher-up and get a promotion?”

“You know that’s not true.”

“At least I know now why you were nervous about this meeting. Were you worried that I’d find out about him? Or that he’d find out about me? Probably the latter. My opinion doesn’t matter to you.”

“Fuck’s _sake_ , Eames. We had a thing _years_ ago. We slept together a few times, that was _it_. It was over in two months.”

Eames makes a low growling sound.

“There is _nothing_ for you to be jealous of,” Arthur says, “I don’t want him. I want you.”

“Why is it that you only want me _now_? Now that I’m leaving, now that I’m going to hand in my notice and walk away from you? You never gave a shit before. When you could have me anytime you wanted.”

“It just – it took me a while to realise what I wanted.”

Eames shakes his head. Arthur grabs his wrists, holds him fast.

“ _Eames_. I _love_ you,” he says, and the truth of it _hurts_.

Eames yanks his wrists out of Arthur’s grasp.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, and stalks off.

 

* * *

 

All things considered, the meeting with Fischer goes surprisingly well. Cobb’s still twitchy at Arthur and Arthur’s still screaming inside and Fischer’s looking Arthur’s way a little too often, but the heavily-edited financial reports go down well, and Saito and Fischer come to an agreement. There’ll still be a fuckton of things to sort out, paperwork to sign and bank accounts to calibrate – most of which Arthur will have to deal with because he’s the only one with the expertise or the motivation to do it – but after that, both companies will merge together and have almost complete dominance over the energy industry. It’s pretty impressive, being part of such a big development. Or rather, it would be, if Arthur wasn’t constantly thinking about his ex-not-boyfriend. Before he met Eames, this was what he lived for – working hard, and getting results like this. Now, this success feels insignificant. Like it doesn’t really matter. He just feels lonely. And he hates it.

There’s a celebration after the meeting. Everyone crams into the entrance hall and Saito gives a speech about how great everything is and then they break out the champagne and the employees of _Extractions Inc._ prove that East London has a drinking problem. Arthur doesn’t really feel much like celebrating, hanging around at the back quietly, but Fischer finds him before long.

“Arthur,” he says, hooking an arm round his elbow, “This has gone so much better than I expected. Your financial reports were fantastic. I forgot how efficient you are. In all things.”

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Arthur asks, to the point.

“Well, now that this merger’s going through, I have an offer for you.”

“What kind of offer?”

“A job offer. A promotion, if you like. You’re wasted here, Arthur. I could use your talents much better. I can give you much more than Saito does. More challenging tasks, more recognition, more rewards.”

“What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one. I’m ready to give you a position as an assistant to my Chief Financial Analyst. You won’t even need to hand your notice in to Saito. It’ll be a straight transfer. It could happen in a few weeks.”

Arthur nods slowly.

“This job,” he says, “It’s in America, isn’t it?”

“Naturally.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

Fischer raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, I forgot. Your boyfriend. English, I presume?”

“Yes.”

Fisher shrugs.

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid. I suppose you’ll have to talk about it. It’s a great offer, Arthur. You’re not going to get one like it again. Think about it.”

Arthur nods.

“I will.”

Fisher pats him on the shoulder, then heads off.

“Hey there, Mr Finance!” Ari calls, rushing towards Arthur, holding two glasses of champagne aloft,  Yusuf at her side.

She passes a glass to him, kissing him soundly on the cheek.

“You make me so proud, honey!” she says.

“Well done,” says Yusuf.

Arthur goes to shake his hand, but Yusuf says, “Awh, c’mere you!” and enfolds him in a big bear hug. Ari giggles at Arthur’s shocked expression.

“Er, um, thank you,” says Arthur, pulling away, “Are you two drunk already?”

“No!” says Yusuf, “We’re just sampling the delights of free champagne.”

“Yusuf’s drunk six glasses already,” says Ari.

“Five!” Yusuf corrects, “Only five, young Ariadne.”

“Was that Fischer talking to you just then?” asks Ari.

Arthur nods.

“Yeah. He, er, he gave me a job offer, actually. Back in the States.”

Ari’s eyes widen.

“No. You _can’t_ take it. Can you?”

Arthur shrugs.

“I don’t know.”

“But what about _us_?” says Ari.

“What about _Eames_?” says Yusuf.

“I don’t know, guys. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Don’t say that,” says Ari, “It means you already know what you’re going to do.”

Arthur gives her a tight-lipped smile.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” says Ari, looking as though she’s about to cry, “No, I don’t want you to leave.”

“Come on. It wouldn’t be _so_ dreadful,” Arthur reasons.

“Arthur,” says Yusuf, “You’re our best friend.”

“And you’re my worst,” says Arthur, “But I love you anyway.”

“But what are you going to do about Eames?” asks Ari, looking up at the first-floor balcony where Eames is again, leaning over the railings to watch the proceedings.

“That much depends,” says Arthur.

“On what?”

“On his answer,” Arthur replies.

Then he drains his glass of champagne, and leaves.


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing Arthur says to Eames is, “You’re a fucking wanker, you know.” The second is, “And I am too.”

Eames smiles ruefully, looks sidelong at him as he leans against the railings of the first-floor balcony.

“Yeah, that’s about right,” he says.

Arthur edges nearer, slides his hand across the railing and onto Eames’ hand. Eames doesn’t pull away.

“Are you still mad at me?” Arthur asks.

“Of course.”

“How much? On a scale of one to ten.”

“About 8.5.”

“That’s pretty high.”

“Well, it was 9.5 earlier, think yourself lucky.”

“It didn’t reach ten?”

“No. If it did, I’d have to kill you. And then kill myself, of course. You’re very lucky it didn’t reach ten, there’d have been a lot of mess for someone to clean up. Wouldn’t be good for the company.”

Arthur breaks into a smile, because this is Eames, this is _his_ Eames.

“What were you talking to Fischer about?” Eames asks abruptly.

Arthur stops smiling. Eames looks down and turns away.

“Well, fine, if you don’t want to tell me –”

“He offered me a job in America.”

Eames stops, turns back around.

“What?”

“It’s a big promotion, Eames. I’d be working with the company’s Chief Financial Analyst. It’s the kind of thing I dreamt about when I was studying.”

“And when you got that internship with Fischer,” Eames adds, his voice bitter.

Arthur nods curtly.

“It’s the kind of thing my family always wanted for me. They always taught me to work hard, and that’s all I’ve ever done. They were overbearing, always pushing me. They didn’t care about who I was, just what I achieved. They told me I had to work and work and work because someday, I’d get my reward. In wages, in promotions, in respect. But I’ve spent all this time working and it hasn’t worked. It hasn’t made them proud. It hasn’t made me happy.”

Arthur takes a breath, looks at Eames.

“The only thing that’s made me happy is you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying there’s two ways this could go. The first is that I leave. I go to America, work hard for the next thirty years, try to make mum and dad proud, try to be good enough for them. You leave and start doing random jobs again and probably singlehandedly ruin the economy by going back into Investment Banking.”

“And the other way?”

“Ah.”

Arthur looks at Eames, and he’s all nervous energy and fear and hope and love, and he remembers again why he’s doing this, why it’s worth it.

“The other way’s not quite so easy.”

“What is it?”

“The other way is that you trust me. And I trust you. Eames, I _love_ you. I’ve just been scared. I was scared that you didn’t really love me. That you’d run away and take my heart with you, what little of it there is. That’s why I pushed you away all this time.”

Eames takes Arthur’s hands, kisses them.

“Arthur, I’d never – you _know_ , I’d never.”

Arthur smiles.

“And neither would I.”

And that’s when Arthur does the single most terrifying thing in his life. He looks at Eames, and takes a deep breath. And then he gets down on one knee. A hush falls over the whole room. Conversations stop, people freeze. Everyone stares at the two men on the first-floor balcony.

“What are you doing?” says Eames, shock flickering across his face.

Arthur looks up at him.

“You said you didn’t believe that I love you. Well, this is me proving that I do.”

Eames frowns, conflicted.

“But Arthur – are you sure?”

Arthur nods slowly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“This isn’t too soon?”

“What are you, a girl? Of course it isn’t. We’ve been dating for five months, and we’ve been in love for most of them. We just didn’t notice it at the time.”

“You’ve forgiven me for being a twat to you?”

“Against my better judgement.”

Eames looks at him seriously.

“You _really_ mean this? You want to spend _the rest of your life_ with me?”

“We’ll discuss my psychological problems later.”

Eames laughs.

“Arthur. My darling.”

“Eames, love, I would love to discuss all this further, but right now everyone is staring at us and my knees are starting to get sore, so if you’d be good enough to give me an answer, that’d be great.”

Eames smiles, looks down at him like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

“Darling, you do realise you haven’t actually asked me a question yet?”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“This is no time for pedantry.”

“How am I to know what you’re asking me if you don’t say it? You might just be tying your shoelaces down there for all I know.”

Arthur sighs.

“You’re hard work, you know.”

“Oh, you’re a saint.”

Arthur looks up at the man he loves and he’s scared, he’s fucking _terrified_ , but this feels right, like he should be here, like he should be doing this, like they should be together, always.

“Mr Eames,” says Arthur, “Will you marry me?”

Eames grins and grabs him, puts his hands either side of Arthur’s head and pulls him up, dragging him into a fierce kiss, holding him as close as possible, like he can’t let go. The whole room of office workers erupts into a chorus of claps and cheers and catcalls and wolf whistles, and Arthur’s pretty sure that Yusuf’s the one yelling “Fucking _finally_!”. Arthur holds onto Eames, hands on his shoulders, and pulls away a little.

“You do realise you haven’t actually given me an answer yet?” he says teasingly.

“Yes,” says Eames, kissing him again, “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you, of _course_ I will, _yes_.”

Arthur laughs, lets Eames bundle him up into a bonecrushingly tight hug.

“ _You_ ,” Eames says quietly, “are a stupidly perfect and gorgeous and sexy and lovely man.”

Arthur shrugs.

“You’re rather wonderful yourself.”

Then their friends descend upon them, happy and proud and slightly tipsy.

“Oh my God!” Ari yells, launching herself onto Arthur, “You two are perfect! _Perfect_! I want to _die_!”

Arthur sort of hugs her back, but mostly just tries to keep them both steady as he recovers from the assault.

“I’m being a bridesmaid!” Ari demands.

“Okay,” says Arthur, as Ari lets go of him to smother Eames in a hug instead.

“ _Thank you_ ,” says Cobb, appearing at Arthur’s side, putting a brotherly hand on his shoulder and looking somewhat relieved, “I don’t think I could _survive_ any more angst from you two.”

“Thanks,” says Arthur, “For, you know. Being there for me.”

“You did the same for me.”

Arthur smiles, bittersweet as he remembers the circumstances.

“Now, I expect to be best man,” says Cobb, pointing a finger at him.

“Of course. I have to return the favour.”

“And Philippa will want to be a flower girl,” Cobb adds, “And you’ll have to do something with James too.”

“Oh God, what have I got myself into?” Arthur groans.

“The joys of wedding planning. Good luck. It’s hell.”

“I’ve got to do something too!” Yusuf demands, hugging Arthur suddenly from behind.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Arthur says in shock as the man lifts him a good few inches from the ground, “Alright, you can be a groomsman or something! Now put me down!”

Yusuf does as he’s told and deposits Arthur unceremoniously on the floor.

“I take it this means you won’t be taking up my offer?” says Fischer, coming up to them, hands in his pockets.

“I’m afraid not,” says Eames defensively, taking Arthur’s hand and lacing their fingers together.

“Arthur?” Fischer asks.

Arthur looks around him, at Eames, Cobb, Ari, Yusuf – his best friends, the people he needs and loves most.

“I’m staying in England,” he says, “With my family.”

Because he doesn’t want to just _work_ for the rest of his life. He wants to be happy too. And that’s what he’s going to do.

The employees of Extraction Inc. are full of congratulations and good wishes, and Arthur and Eames are practically flooded with them all. Roy from IT collects an absolute king’s ransom for betting that they’d get engaged before the year was out. Sharon from Marketing loses fifty quid for betting that they’d break up, but tells them that she’s actually very happy to lose it because it means they’re staying together. Almost everyone in the company insists that they be involved in the wedding in some way, and reassure Arthur that in England, twenty-three bridesmaids is actually quite a normal number. Arthur’s starting to worry about how much this damn thing is going to cost, when Mr Saito himself comes over and tells them he’d like to help them out with the financial side of things. (And by ‘helping them out’, he means ‘pay for the lot’.) To be fair, it does look like almost everyone in the company will be coming at this point. It’s practically a work outing.

 

* * *

 

Arthur and Eames don’t manage to escape them all until the end of the day. They catch the tube home late. Arthur’s exhausted with the day and the lack of sleep from the night before, and he leans heavily on Eames the whole way home, eyes fluttering shut.

“I never thought marrying you was going to be so stressful,” he says.

“You haven’t even done it yet,” says Eames, carding his hands through Arthur’s hair.

“Well, it’s stressing me out already.”

“Sorry about that.”

“S’okay,” Arthur mumbles into Eames’ chest, “Can’t be helped.”

Eames cradles him in his arms, kisses the top of his head.

“When did you decide?” he asks, “You know, to ask me?”

Arthur hums lowly, thinking about it.

“When I saw you this morning.”

“Why then?”

“Because you were mad at me and I should be really pissed off with you for being such a twat, but I wasn’t, least, not enough. I just wanted to kiss you. And I knew that I wanted you, whenever, whatever. Even though it’s extremely impractical.”

Eames laughs.

“I’m sorry for being so inconvenient for you.”

“You should be. I could have been a career bitch. Instead I just want to eat your cooking and lie in bed with you and kiss you at least twenty-four times every day.”

“Twenty-four, you say? You’d better make a start on that.”

Arthur leans up and kisses him slowly, lazily, because he’s tired and Eames is warm and this is comforting, like saying _yes, I love you, I always will_. Kissing Eames is like coming home.

“My mum’s going to spontaneously combust when we tell her, you know,” says Eames.

“Oh God. Well, so long as we can get her to do the catering.”

“You’re very mercenary.”

“All’s fair in love and wedding planning.”

They get home a little past eleven.

“I ought to get a house key made for you,” says Eames, letting them in.

Arthur kicks his shoes off, yawns.

“Take me to bed,” he says.

“I’ve dying for you to say that to me for months.”

“Yeah, you do realise we’re just going to sleep, alright?”

“Nothing until we’re married?”

“I was going to say nothing until tomorrow. But if you want to wait until then…”

“Fuck off. I don’t have _that_ kind of self-control,” says Eames, and picks him up, bridal-style.

“What the fuck? _Eames_!”

“Well, you have to let me carry you over the threshold, darling,” says Eames, taking him upstairs.

“Not until we’re married!”

“This is good practice. I need to get used to hefting you around.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

“No, you just weigh a bloody ton.”

“Eames!”

Eames drops Arthur onto the bed, groaning as if it’s a huge effort. Arthur rolls over onto his side, snuggling into the blankets.

“You can’t sleep in your suit,” says Eames.

“Why not?”

“It’ll crease and then you’ll bitch about ironing it.”

“Nnng. _Tired_.”

Eames rolls his eyes and starts undressing them both.

“My, how forward you are, Mr Eames,” Arthur mumbles.

“You’re really too tired for dirty talk. It’s not sexy.”

“Like you’re not turned on by me like this.”

Eames looks down at him, hair mussed, half-undressed, sprawled out on the bed.

“You have a point,” he concedes, “But I’m turned on by you however you are. It’s very distracting.”

“Even when I’m pissy?”

“ _Especially_ then. I just want to fuck you against a wall them.”

Arthur hums in approval.

“We’ll have to get round to that sometime.”

Eames pulls the duvet over Arthur, now only wearing his vest and pants (and really, who wears a vest under the age of sixty-five?)

“Sometime,” he promises as Arthur wriggles down into the mattress, getting comfortable.

“Get in here,” Arthur says.

Eames climbs in, spooning up behind him, and Arthur shifts closer, now used to the shape of Eames next to him in bed. Eames kisses the back of Arthur’s neck, because it’s there and because he can, now.

“We’ll be like this always, won’t we?” says Arthur.

“What, exhausted and sex-deprived?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

Eames runs his hand up and down Arthur’s arm, reassuring, holding him there.

“How do you feel about morning blowjobs?” he asks.

“Oh, we’re so classy.”

“I take it that’s a yes to the offer?”

“So is this how it goes? I propose marriage, and you propose a blowjob?”

“I think that’s a good summary of how this marriage is going to work.”

 “How romantic.”

“Ssh, you don’t want romance, you want a good fucking.”

Arthur half-laughs, tired. Eames takes his hand, kisses it.

“Goodnight, husband-to-be.”

“‘Night.” 


End file.
